


Dover Beach

by Ooshka



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Lieutenant Duckling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-26
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-04-17 08:37:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 55,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4659942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ooshka/pseuds/Ooshka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Princess Emma had really wanted was a little time to herself, to just be Emma and not all the things everyone expected.  Of course falling into the sea had not been a part of that plan, and now she’s left in a strange place with a strange young man and perhaps home is a lot better than she thought it was.</p>
<p>Lieutenant Killian Jones hadn’t intended on saving a princess.  But pulling her from the water is only the start of the journey and now they have to figure out a way to survive the dangers facing them, and each other.</p>
<p>Stuck together and far from home, the two of them are about to discover that sometimes it takes learning about someone else to really get to know yourself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Emma hadn't really enjoyed the wedding, but the boat ride was nice.

The boat ride to the wedding of Prince Eric and the former mermaid Ariel had been long and tedious because she'd been trapped in a cabin with her entire family, most of whom seemed intent on being unduly annoying. Honestly, sometimes just the sound of her brother Jamie's breathing made her want to throw him overboard.

Sometimes she just wants a little space to herself.

But the wedding was over and her younger sister Eva had managed to persuade their parents that she desperately wanted to see the fabled Pink Cliffs, because who doesn't need to be nearly blinded by staring at some slightly pinkish cliffs formed by hot springs as they ran into the sea?

The answer to that question, was the Princess Eva, who begged and wheedled until her parents, Queen Snow and Prince David, finally gave in, and let her follow on a separate boat which would divert in order to take in her little sight-seeing excursion, providing, of course, that her older sister also accompanied her, along with their maids. Emma was just glad that Eva's pet rabbit hadn't been packed on board as well.

But even so, this trip is…better. Eva, who at 12 is six years younger than Emma, did at least stop talking when they finally got their first glimpse of the cliffs. Emma got to stand on deck and enjoy the solitude her sister's silence afforded her.

And then her solitude is broken by a male voice close by. "Are they to your liking, your highness?" Turning, Emma sees that Captain Liam Jones has joined her at the railing.

"I think…they are probably as lovely as Princess Eva hoped they would be," Emma replies, trying, and probably failing, not to stare at Captain Jones too much. If she was being honest with herself, then she would admit that she has a small crush on the Captain of the  _Jewel of the Realm_. But it isn't something that she expects will ever mean anything. She's a princess, for one thing, and he's older and unlikely to ever want someone as unworldly as she is.

But she's young, and he's handsome, and nice, and she very much enjoys watching him move about the boat.

"And do you find them lovely, your highness?" Captain Jones asks. Emma is almost certain that she's blushing because he's looking at her so intently, like he's really interested in her opinion and it's so very flattering. She realises that it's one thing to admire someone from afar, it is quite another to come face to face with the object of her admiration.

"I'm sure I do, although I am not perhaps as enamoured with geological wonders as my sister is. But I am here so she may have her glimpse of them, and not get herself in trouble in the process." Emma glances over towards one of the sailors who is warning Eva not to lean too far over the railing. She lets out a small sigh and turns back to Captain Jones. "It's not easy being the eldest, you know," she adds, conspiratorially, because he's been so nice that it's hard not to slip into the habit of letting him into her confidence.

"Oh, believe me. I understand, your highness." Captain Jones gives her a warm smile, followed by a slight bow, and then leaves her side. Emma can see one of the other interchangeable officers dotted around the boat watching her, but she was used to that. People stare all the time, thinking she is something special when she isn't. Not really.

Her birth had been heralded with much fanfare, coming as it did so soon after the banishment of the Evil Queen, Regina. She was, after all, the product of True Love and it was expected she'd bring great things to the kingdom, even though they were expecting the return of Regina at any time.

But Regina didn't return, and Emma didn't show any signs of being magic and, eventually, Queen Snow and Prince David became complacent enough to risk extending their family. First came Eva, then the twins, Leo and Jamie, followed by David Jnr, and the baby of the family, Elsa.

It wasn't that Emma felt pushed out of the nest, she just felt a little…swamped. There were so many people in her family, all fighting to be heard, and she didn't have anything that was just hers. Even this sight-seeing trip wasn't for her benefit, it was for Eva's.

She's broken out of her reverie by Eva coming over and elbowing her in the side. "You like him," she accuses with all the vehemence only a 12 year old girl could muster.

"I do not. And I would thank you to remember some sense of propriety, Eva. Even though mother and father are not here, it doesn't mean that you get to go around imagining all sorts of things that, clearly, do not exist."

Eva rolls her eyes rather dramatically, which looks odd in a face which is so much like their mother's. Emma's sister is as different to her in colouring as she is in temperament. "You're just in a mood because it's your time of the month." Eva smiles, knowingly.

"You do not know what you're speaking about." Emma remains as haughty and detached as she can, aware that the odd officer-person was still watching them from further down the boat. Whoever he is, he's getting on her nerves and she really doesn't want to give him a show by pinching her sister's arm, even though she is sorely tempted.

"Oh, I do so," Eva replies, smugly. "I've started, too."

Emma frowns. "You have? But you're only 12."

"13 in a week, so I'm practically grown now."

Now Emma is tempted to roll her own eyes. Eva is so adamant that she's a grown up, but really, what difference does it make that she's menstruating? It hadn't made any difference to Emma, after all. Sure, she'd been allowed to leave the nursery but other than that, she was treated like a child just as much as she always was.

All Emma really wants is some time on her own. A little time to be just Emma, and not the daughter of the Queen and Prince consort, the sister of all the other princes and princesses, a member of the royal household, the product of True Love and all the things that defined her. None of them were about who she is as a person.

Feeling a little deflated, Emma returns to her cabin to wait for their arrival in The Enchanted Forest.

The storm comes suddenly, a few hours later. Emma listens to the rain hitting the deck above her, the shouts of the men, and the sails as they're whipped mercilessly by the wind. It's all a little terrifying, being buffeted about, and her stomach lurches more than once as the  _Jewel of the Realm_  does the same.

It does not help her at all when her maid starts heaving into a bucket in the corner of the room. Emma's stomach rolls and she develops a sudden, strong need to breathe something other than the close and slightly fetid air in the cabin. Opening a porthole is out of the question, so there is only one thing for it.

Surely she can just stick her head up above the little hatch that leads down here and just take a few breaths? That won't hurt anyone will it?

Emma steps out of the cabin only to discover that her sister Eva has followed her out. "Are you going out?" Eva demands, in a way that reveals she is hardly the grown-up she believes she is.

"I'm just…getting some air."

"Well, if you're going up there, I'm going up there. I want to see how big the waves are."

"I don't really think that's a good idea, Eva."

"Stop treating me like I'm a  _child_ , Emma. You're not Mother. And I'm allowed."

"I don't know if you are, Eva." Emma really wishes that Eva would just learn to take no for an answer.

"Well,  _you're_ doing it. And I bet you didn't even ask your Captain Jones, did you? Because you go all red when you talk to him. So, whatever Emma! I'm going up to look."

Emma watches as Eva climbs the ladder and then pushes on the hatch to the deck. It doesn't open at first and Emma can hear Eva give a small grunt as she pushes harder. Emma wishes that Eva would just get on with it so she can see what a bad idea this is, and they can go back to the cabin none the worse for wear. "Come on, Eva," she mutters, quietly. "Just get it open."

And odd shiver goes through Emma and she feels a strange tingling sensation in her fingers, but she pays it no attention as she focuses on her sister. Eva gives one last shove and the hatch suddenly opens with a bang, causing her to give a small squeak of surprise. Emma is immediately hit with a blast of cold air swirling down to where she's standing.

"Eva? Eva, I don't think this is a great idea."

"Phfft. Stop being such a scaredy-cat!" Eva may have been adamant that she was a woman now, but right at that moment she sounds more like their brothers who seem to spend most of their lives daring each other to perform more and more outrageous tasks. Emma is briefly glad that it's only Eva here with her, and not the boys, and then she follows her sister up the ladder.

"Don't go out Eva! I don't think it's safe." The boat lurches violently to the right.

"I just want to see. It's very dark and I can't see properly." Eva disappears through the hatch and out of Emma's sight.

She isn't at all sure what to do. On the one hand, most likely one of the sailors will drag her back down any minute now, just as they'd prevented her from falling overboard earlier that afternoon.

On the other hand, Emma thinks, as moments pass by and there's still no sign of Eva, it's possible that the crew are too busy to notice a child up on the deck. Anything could be happening to her. And as much as they would no doubt try to stop themselves from expressing it, it was almost a given that her parents will not be pleased if their first born daughter lets their second born daughter tumble off a boat during a storm. She remembers all the walks she'd gone on as a child, and being forced to hold her baby sister's clammy little hand so Eva didn't wander off into the gardens, or the forest, or the kitchens in search of a forbidden cake.

She fervently wishes that Eva was still so compliant.

Emma pokes her head up through the hatch and immediately regrets it. The wind whips past her head, loosening her hair and sending strands spiralling around. The rain pelts her face, the drops icy and unforgiving. Sure, there was the fresh air she'd been craving, but the roiling of her stomach is no longer due to the movement of the boat or the sickness of her maid; now it's caused by fear about what has happened to Eva.

"The waves are really big, Emma!" a familiar voice calls from her left.

"That's lovely, Eva," she calls back, as she watches the sails move overhead and wonders just how much more wind it would take to rip one down. "Come back inside now!"

Emma waits for some kind of reply from Eva and none arrives. "Eva?" she calls, searching for her sister in the gloom. "Come back!"

"I…I can't." Eva's voice sounds small and far away.

"Yes you can! Get back in here now!" Emma isn't even trying to hide the desperation in her own voice. Why, oh why, could Eva never do as she was asked?

"I'm scared Emma! It's too scary up here!" Emma has a sudden vision of her sister as she was when she was a toddler too frightened to go down the steep stone stairs in the castle. Eva would simply stand at the top and yell for Emma to come and help her down. And each time it happened, without fail, Emma would go because her father always told her that she was his big girl and it was her job to help those who needed it.

"It's fine, Eva. Just come back and you'll be fine!"

"NO! You come and get me!"

"I…" Emma looked around helplessly for any sign of someone else who might come to their aid, but the few sailors she can see aren't paying any attention to the two girls. "I'm coming Eva!"

She crawls out of the hatch and, keeping on all fours, inches her way along the slick deck towards the sound of Eva's voice. "Just hold on!"

"I am holding on!" Eva yells. "I'm not stupid, Emma!"

Emma thinks that they could very much debate that assertion right about then, but maybe she will wait until they are back in the cabin, dry and out of danger. Then she'll tell Eva exactly what she thinks of her little stunt.

Emma keeps crawling and, after a moment, spies something vaguely white on the deck which approximates Eva's form. Emma reaches out a hand and touches the object, shouting "I'm here!" She suspects that's not as comforting to Eva as it once was on the stairs of the castle.

"I want to go inside!" Eva wails.

"Take my hand." Eva's hand is wet and slippery, as is the deck itself. Emma holds on to something metal that she hopes is well-anchored with one hand, while she tries to pull Eva towards her with the other. Her sister is almost a dead weight.

"You'll have to crawl, too, Eva," she calls out.

"I'm scared though!"

"I've got you. You can do it."

It seems to take hours, although it must only be minutes, but they painstakingly crawl back to the hatch. "Get in!" Emma urges her sister, and Eva slides her legs over the edge and disappears, not even bothering to hide her sob of relief from her sister.

Emma follows, and then stands, toes curled around the rung of the ladder, trying to close the hatch. It's heavy, though, and while Eva had been able to push it open, the direction of the wind and the tilting of the boat is now pinning it to the deck. Emma determines that she needed a better angle, and more leverage, so climbs back up, intending to lift the hatch partially up while balancing one foot on the deck, and then close it behind her as she climbs down the ladder.

It seems like an easy thing to accomplish in her head, but the wind is strong, the rain relentless and her soft slippers have no grip on the sodden surface of the deck. Emma grasps the hatch with both hands and pulls, just as a large wave hits the side of the boat and it rolls, in the same direction she's pulling. Emma's wet hands slip, leaving her clutching at nothing, and her feet slide from underneath her as though she is pretend-skating down the marble floored hallways of the castle in her stockinged feet once again.

She's so surprised to find herself sliding in this fashion, her arms wind-milling, her mouth probably open despite the rain, her eyes wide, that she is almost less surprised when she hits the water. Of course it happens this way. If she is ever going to fall off a boat in the middle of a storm, it will be because Eva, the perpetual thorn in her side, has caused her to do so.

For a moment she forgets to do anything to stop herself drifting in the icy water. It's so cold that all she wants to do is curl in a ball and hope that it goes away, soon. But somewhere deep in her mind she knows that isn't going to happen. Swim, she tells herself. Emma, you have to swim.

Breaking the surface, Emma can make out the dark shape of the boat. It looks a lot further away than she thought it should. How can it have got away so fast? She begins to swim towards it, although the waves feel like they're pushing her back and she can barely see as they break over her head, and her limbs feel almost too heavy to move, dragged down by the cold and by her dress wrapping itself around her.

It all seems hopeless, and Emma's on the verge of giving up entirely and resigning herself to a watery grave, when she feels arms pulling at her. For a moment she remembers the story of how Ariel had once saved her mother and she imagines that the mermaid has followed the ship and is now stepping in to rescue Snow's daughter from the same fate.

But it isn't Ariel. It's one of the sailors off the boat. She's at first relieved because she's no longer on her own and those few long moments when it was just Emma versus the sea were truly terrifying, but then he starts dragging her in what is, clearly, the wrong direction.

"No!" she yells, as best as she can, above the sound of the rain and the wind and the waves. "The boat!" Emma points at the dark shape that she is sure is the boat she's fallen off. She just needs to get back there and then someone will pull them up, and it will all be OK.

What she doesn't need just now is to be dragged further out to sea by some idiot sailor. She tries to wrench free of the grip he has on her arm, but she can't. A choked sob escapes her, but she doubts he heard it above the other noise around them.

He is pulling her to her death and he doesn't even care.

Her parents have always feared that her life will end this way. At the mercy of someone with a grudge against her family, someone who works for The Evil Queen, or King George or even the Dark One. Someone who wants to hurt her family and thinks she's the key to meeting that aim.

But then, in the midst of her despair, Emma realises that there is something in front of them, something dark and looming.

Have they turned around and found the boat again? She wants to ask, but this isn't really the time to start up a conversation.

Minutes that feel like hours pass by. Emma's cold, so cold, and she's tired and confused. Wherever they're going, she isn't sure she can make it now. It seems like a much better decision to just let go, to let herself sink, to give up on ever making it out of the water.

She wants desperately to let go, get rid of the pain in her arms and her legs, but he won't let her. She tries to stop swimming but he yells "Keep going!" and drags her through the water.

"No," Emma says, although she doubts he's heard her voice. She tries prying his fingers off her arm again, but his grip is like iron. She relents, knowing when she's beaten, and they make a little more progress through the water.

The dark shapes ahead became clearer and Emma realises something very important. They aren't heading towards the boat, their destination is the shore.

He lets go, finally, as they reach shallow water and she collapses, spluttering and overwhelmed. "Get up and keep going!" he barks, and although a corner of her mind balks at the reproof from some sailor she doesn't even know, she does as he instructs, and, eventually, she realises that she's crawling on sand rather than through water.

Emma looks over at the man who's dragged her onto the beach and who is now sitting, looking out at the tumultuous sea behind them. She supposes she should feel some gratitude, but she doesn't. Not right then.

"It was the wrong way!" she hisses. "We went the wrong way!" She may be out of the water now, but her heart has sunk somewhere along the way to the shore. She isn't where she's supposed to be, and she's left Eva behind. Worst of all she feels like she's let everyone down.

"We're safe," he tells her, and she crawls a little closer to get a better look at him. From his uniform he's completely interchangeable with all the other sailors on the ship, the ones of higher rank, anyway. But there is something a little familiar about him…she just can't figure out what. And then, in a flash, she does and she realises that he's the man who'd been watching her talk to the captain, earlier in the day.

She's no longer sure if she truly is safe. The way he'd watched her before, so intensely, it was…worrying. And now she's stuck here with him. Wherever here is, exactly. She can almost make herself believe that he's orchestrated the whole thing and she's ended up overboard because of him.

"But…my sister…" Emma says, trying to work out what to do next.

"She was in the water, too?" he asks, sharply.

"No. She's on the boat. And I'm supposed to be on the boat too! But I fell off, and you didn't take me back, you brought me here, and they left us behind!"

"It's a ship." His voice is dark, and unimpressed.

"What?" Whatever Emma had expected the response to her little outburst to be, it isn't that.

"It's a ship. You fell off a ship, not a boat."

"Well that doesn't make it sound any better, does it?"

He looks at her coolly and she tries to make out any of his features in the gloomy light, but she fails. All she can tell is that he has dark hair, and that may have just been because he was wet, like she is. She shivers, involuntarily.

"No," he replies. "It's still a bloody stupid thing to do. What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking that I had to get my sister because no one else was bothering to do anything about it!"

"Perhaps everyone on board was a little too busy to deal with a couple of silly girls who couldn't figure out it was safer below deck during a storm!"

Emma doesn't really have a good comeback to that because, she has to admit, going up on deck had been a silly thing to do. Her only defence is that she'd tried to talk Eva out of it, but it was a meagre defence at best. In the end, she decides to pull rank. "You do realise who you're addressing in such a manner, don't you?"

"Someone I just pulled out of the water. A little gratitude might have been appropriate…your highness."

Emma stays quiet. She's happy to be alive, but at the same time, deep down she still feels that he's done something wrong in dragging them ashore rather than attempting to get back to the boat…ship. Whatever it is! All Emma knows is that it's sailed off and left them.

Emma presses her lips together, trying to will away the desire to cry. She simply won't give in to the temptation in front of this man.

"Who are you, anyway?" she asks him.

"Jones…" Emma turns a scornful look in his direction, even though he probably won't see it with the little light there is. And then she interrupts him.

"No. You're not. You're forgetting that I've met the captain, and you're clearly not Liam Jones. Nice try, but just because we're stuck here it doesn't give you the opportunity to impersonate him."

There's a moment where the only sound is the waves crashing and the wind howling and Emma regrets her harsh words because calling the man's bluff has probably caused him to rethink any plan he might have to keep her alive.

"I'm Lieutenant Jones. Killian Jones," he says quietly. "The captain's my brother."

"Oh." Emma wonders if he's going to press for some kind of apology for the fact she'd accused him, outright, of being a liar. But instead he stands up and she sees what looks like his hand extended towards her. It's still too gloomy to make much out.

"We should probably find some shelter," he says, as she takes the offered hand with as much grace as she can muster under the circumstances, and allows him to help her up. "Your hand is freezing," he comments.

"All of me is freezing." Emma has never been so cold in her life.

"Let's…see if there's a cave, or something." Lieutenant Jones starts to pull Emma along the wet sand and she stumbles, feeling anything but graceful.

"But…shouldn't we wait? For them to come back for me…us?" She hopes he hasn't noticed her last minute correction, as she hasn't meant to be insensitive. But deep down she knows that it's far more likely her absence will be noted before his. After all, she's one of only two princesses on board, he's just another sailor. Brother of the captain or not, it may be a while before anyone thinks to see if he is where he should be. Eva will have surely raised the alarm about Emma.

Emma feels another pang of guilt about leaving her sister alone, even though she is still fairly convinced that Eva has caused the whole disaster with her mad desire to see how big the waves are.

"They won't come back. Not in this weather."

Emma wishes she could formulate some argument to the contrary. They wouldn't just leave her here, would they?

But he sounds so defeated, so utterly certain that their fate is now to be stuck on this little rocky beach, that she can't think of anything that might prove him wrong.

They trudge through wet sand and over rocks which cut through Emma's slippers and make her hop about in pain at least once on their journey. And then, when she thinks she would rather just give up on the walking and sit in the rain, Lieutenant Jones suddenly says, "Up there!", and she finds herself being pushed up some rocks towards an inky black spot.

They pause at the entrance. "What if there's something in there?" she whispers.

"Well," Lieutenant Jones replies, slowly. "I think we'll have to hope that there is not, because I would be sorely disappointed if I had rescued a princess only to see her get eaten by something unspeakable."

He takes a step inside the cave and Emma follows, sitting alongside him when he sinks onto the hard stone. "You think it'd catch me first?" she whispers. "You don't have much faith in my ability to get away from danger."

"I guess we'll have to see, your highness" he replies, quietly.

The sound of the wind and the sea is still loud, but the loudest sound in the cave is the chattering of Emma's teeth. She tries biting her lip, tasting the dried salt there in the process, but it doesn't work. The chill that has seeped into her bones isn't like anything she's ever felt before.

Lieutenant Jones shifts slightly and she feels his right arm go over her shoulders and pull her close against him. She stiffens at the contact; it's the closest she's ever been to another person who she isn't related to, or who isn't in her service. "We have to keep warm," he murmurs, rubbing her upper arms with his hands.

"Easier said than done," Emma replies, blinking back tears again.

They sit like that, silently, in the mouth of the cave while the storm carries on around them. Emma isn't sure how much time has passed but the cold is slowly, painfully slowly, leaving her. She's still wet, and her dress is no doubt ruined by salt to boot, but she doesn't feel quite as alone as she had on the beach.

"Thank-you," she whispers into the dark. She doesn't turn her head to look at him, and the fact that there is no light to see by is only part of the reason. They are stuck together, now, after all. Whether they like it or not.

"You're welcome," the lieutenant replies, as his hands keep up their ministrations. "Your highness."

**Thanks for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

Lieutenant Killian Jones wonders if this is his punishment for spending too much time watching the princess earlier in the day. Liam had noticed and made a comment about him keeping his eyes on his duties, which Killian had thought was more than a little unnecessary. It wasn't like he was standing there, staring blankly at her like a lovesick boy. But she was certainly…different to anything they normally carried on the _Jewel of the Realm_  and, really, any distraction was welcome when they were merely serving as some kind of pleasure craft for the whims of the royal family. It was hardly a taxing voyage.

But he had, he supposed, been the only one aboard to see the princess tossed overboard during the storm, so there had been that small benefit. Although once in the water with her trying to drown herself and bellowing on about the bloody 'boat' being in the other direction, he didn't feel it to be much of a benefit at all. He felt it even less now that they were sitting in a damp, dark cave in the middle of a storm.

Under other circumstances, he might have enjoyed being in such close proximity to a girl who was certainly pleasant to look at. He didn't get to see many girls at all, and he'd touched even fewer, and none of them looked anything like Princess Emma. But the moment was marred by many things, one of them being the gnawing worry in his gut.

He'd been short with her earlier, demanding some kind of gratitude for saving her. He's unsure whether that's something he's going to regret later, when it comes back to bite him. Probably he need only worry about such a thing happening if they are, by some miracle, still alive in the morning. Making it through the following day had even slimmer odds.

He feels responsible for her now, and utterly hopeless with it. He was used to being only responsible for himself, and the ship, and his men…but in each case he always had Liam there to back him up. In this, he was alone. Well, save for the princess he was currently trying to warm up.

It sounded like the start of a particularly ribald joke, but Killian couldn't have felt less like laughing. The responsibility for the girl in his arms weighs on him as heavily as the water-soaked dress the princess was wearing did on her. But as much as he wanted to, Killian couldn't suggest she remove it. He just hopes that she doesn't freeze to death on him because of it. He takes off his own water-logged waist-coat but leaves his shirt on, despite the way it clings to his torso like cold, damp seaweed.

They might be alone, in a cave and in danger of freezing, but something tells him that the princess isn't likely to appreciate him stripping half-naked in front of her.

But merely rubbing her arms doesn't seem to be warming her up any. The princess is so cold that it's like touching a fish. Or, worse, a mermaid. He shudders at the thought of running into one of those terrifying creatures.

"You're cold too," the princess murmurs, and it startles him because he had, momentarily at least, forgotten she was an actual person there, with him. He'd been lost in his own thoughts and keeping up the motion of his hands out of habit.

"I'll live," he replies, hoping that what he's said is a true statement.

"Of course you will," the princess replies, a little tetchily. "Because you're just going to run off."

"No. I'm not." Killian is more than a little hurt that the princess would assume he'd rescue her, only to abandon her. If he'd wanted to do that, he wouldn't have jumped into the bloody sea after her in the first place.

"Well, you might," she insists. "If you're just going to stand around and watch me get eaten."

He's confused by that statement for a moment, until it dawns on him that she's referencing his earlier comment. "You think I wouldn't at least try to keep hold of the princess I fished from the sea?" he asks.

"I don't know. Would you?" The princess' voice sounds almost arch, but the effect is a little marred by the noticeable chattering of her teeth. Although that sound is in danger of being drowned out by the loud rumble coming from his own stomach, Killian notices with dismay.

"Yes," he says, as decisively as he can. "I would."

"Good."

There is silence for a moment, and then Killian's stomach rumbles again, loudly. "Although," the princess adds. "I'm slightly worried now that  _you_  might devour me."

Under other circumstances her attempt at humour might seem almost flirtatious, but there was nothing in their current situation that made him think that the princess in any way wanted him… _like that_. "I think you're safe," he murmurs, growing a little uncomfortable with the conversation all the same.

"Mmm," the princess replies, thoughtfully. "Don't sailors turn to cannibalism when they're shipwrecked?"

"I like to think I'm capable of waiting a little longer than a few hours before I start on that. And anyway, technically we weren't shipwrecked." He wonders if the  _Jewel_  has found any shelter from the storm yet, and if they've noticed that he and the princess are missing. It wasn't something he particularly enjoyed, thinking of his ship sailing on without him.

He might almost prefer to keep talking about cannibalism. And then something occurs to him. "Are you trying to distract me?" he asks.

"A little." Her voice is very quiet now. "It usually works."

"With who?"

"Oh. My brothers and sisters. They take a lot of distracting."

Killian isn't sure whether to be flattered that she is considerate enough of his feelings to bother trying to distract him, or insulted that she's treating him like a child. But he can't help but miss the sadness in her voice as she talks about her family. There'd been another princess on the ship, and he hopes that she's had the sense to tell at least one member of the crew about her sister's sudden disappearance.

"Does your broth…uh, Captain Jones do that? Distract you?" she asks in a small voice. He doesn't really want to discuss his relationship with Liam, complicated as it is by naval protocol.

"I suppose…he would distract me by putting me on watch. It's a boring job, but you're stuck there."

"Is that what he did tonight?"

"Yes." He hopes very much that her line of questioning will stop there, as he doesn't want to be pressed into admitting just what it was that Liam was trying to distract him from.

The princess seems to have run out of verbal distractions, however, and conversation lapses. Killian keeps up his ministrations on her arms, wishing he could find it in him to suggest that she shift closer and they share some body heat. Or even just have the courage to move closer to her and assume she wouldn't rebuff him. But even in their current state he simply isn't brave enough to hear the inevitable insults she'll throw his way should she assume that he is trying to take advantage of her. It was bad enough when she'd assumed he was trying to impersonate his brother. Killian should have known that she hadn't a clue who he was…but even so. It somehow rankles a little that she assumed there was only one Jones on board.

Better, though, to be thought an imposter than someone who'd take advantage of a maiden.

The only sounds are the rain and the sea outside, and the chattering of teeth inside the cave. Killian is now so cold and tired that his brain begins to shut down and he isn't really thinking any longer. He just wants the night to be over.

"How long do you think? Until morning?" the princess asks, suddenly, jolting him back to a more wakeful state.

"Hours, yet. I think." He wasn't sure how long it had been since he'd stopped paying attention to everything.

He feels some movement from the princess and he guesses that perhaps she's nodded. In some ways he's glad that it's pitch black in the cave as he doesn't think he'd like to gaze at her worried face and know there's nothing he can do to make it better.

"I don't suppose you know any…magic?" Killian ventures.

The princess sighs sadly, and he's struck with the notion that it was entirely the wrong question to ask her. "I don't," she says, a little sharply. There's a pause, during which Killian wonders if he should apologise, before the princess speaks again. "Everyone thought I would just…have magic. Because of my parents, and the fact they're true love. But I didn't. Despite the years of watching me closely to see what I would do. It did become tiresome." She sighs again. "Really, if you want magic then we need my baby sister, Elsa. Although I can't say that she'd do much to improve the temperature in here."

Killian wished he'd never asked about magic now that he'd heard the sadness in her voice as she gave him her answer. Really, it was a stupid thing to even bring up. Surely if she had a way out of this situation she would have utilised it by now?

He feels like an idiot and it's all he can do not to drag himself off to some far corner of the cave and hang his head in shame. It's only the fact that he doesn't want to be held responsible if something should happen to her that keeps him sitting where he is.

She shivers again and he realises he's just going to have to be brave. "We need to keep warmer." He shifts his body closer to the princess.

"How?" she whispers, as he shifts a little closer again, so that his chest is now in contact with her back. "Oh." She sounds surprised, and he waits to find out if that's a good or a bad thing.

"It's a long time until morning," he reiterates, hoping she'll see his logic. Truthfully, as much as he may have wanted to touch her under other circumstances, he's now far too concerned with their survival to find much pleasure in the current situation.

At least, that's what he's telling himself.

"Yes," the princess agrees, quietly, and while he isn't entirely sure whether she's agreeing with his assessment of the time, or allowing him to touch her, he decides that she's given her assent.

"You're cold too." He feels her hands tentatively begin rubbing his legs, which are now either side of her body. He resumes doing the same to her arms.

It helps a little, being closer, but there is no denying that they are both still hungry, cold, and trapped in their wet clothing. And while their first priority is just surviving the night, he can't help but worry about what will happen if they are still alive in the morning.

The princess' thoughts are clearly working along the same lines. "What will we do tomorrow?" she asks.

Killian hasn't really thought that far ahead. And he isn't sure what made him the authority, anyway. After all, he's spent years on a ship without ever once falling overboard. He hasn't had to deal with this situation before.

"I think…" he begins, when it becomes clear that the princess is still waiting for an answer. "That we will do our best to ascertain our location and start procuring the items we'll need to survive until we can…" Killian pauses, trying to think of what would come next. Or, rather, trying to work out what Princess Emma wants to hear come next. Rescue, probably. He would certainly be glad if there was the possibility of a rescue party appearing on the horizon.

But he fears, quite greatly, that there isn't.

"Get home?" the princess ventures, quietly.

"Aye." Home sounds a long way off about then.

"How far is it?"

This was a question Killian has been dreading. He has no idea, not really, but his suspicions are not happy ones. "It's…it will be a journey. So, tomorrow we'll try to find food, and perhaps some shelter. After that we'll…assess the situation." Deflecting the princess's questions is proving to be a more difficult task than he's anticipated. He hopes that she'll stop asking them because, eventually, he's going to run out of acceptable answers and he'll be forced to tell her the truth.

They are a long way from home, possibly in an enemy kingdom, and there is very little chance of rescue.

"I shall need better travelling clothes," the princess half-whispers, and he finds himself agreeing although he has no idea what he is agreeing to. While he supposes that the gown she's wearing isn't all that practical, women's garments are not something he knows much about. He will have to trust the princess on the validity of this point.

"And better footwear. These slippers…" She pauses. "I slipped off the boat because of them. They are poorly constructed but aptly named." She sighs loudly and the fact that she's so annoyed at her footwear and busy blaming her shoes for the foolhardiness on her part which saw her swept off the ship in a storm makes him not even want to correct her out loud. Only in his head does he amend her words to include the term ship.

"Also, I will need some rags," she announces, still sounding annoyed. This statement, however, confuses him utterly.

"Rags?"

"Yes. I'm bleeding."

She's spoken so matter-of-factly that he wonders for a moment if he has misheard her. But he hasn't and he soon wishes that there is some light in the cave because he needs to see her injury. "Where are you hurt? How bad is it?" The words tumble out in a rush and he's pushing aside the desire to investigate with his hands and see if he can find the source of this mysterious bleeding.

"What? Oh. No. I'm not  _hurt._ " She's dismissive of his assumption but that simply makes him all the more confused. "It's just…the monthly bleeding. You know."

Killian does know, in theory. But the reality is something he's simply never encountered. Rags? "Oh." His voice comes out a lot higher than he would like, so he swallows and tries again. "Of course."

"I suppose you're not used to women." He can't tell if that's a statement or a question on her part. It's true nonetheless. "I'm not really used to…men," she adds. "I guess that makes us a good pair."

"I suppose it does." He doesn't really believe that though, as he can't imagine being stranded with anyone with whom he has less in common than this strange and bewitching creature. He doesn't particularly want to think about just how bewitching she is, though, so instead comments "I'm just glad we haven't fallen over any giants yet."

"Giants?"

"They…uh…" Killian realises suddenly that his joke might be in poor taste and hesitates. The princess, however, urges him to finish, with a rather too eager "Yes?"

He sighs and mumbles "Smell blood," regretting ever starting down this conversational road. Hypothetical creatures that might eat them were one thing; real-life creatures lured by…well, he doesn't want to dwell on  _that_  because it's where he ended up in difficulty to start with.

She'll think he's an arse and she won't be all that wrong.

"Yes," she agrees, although her voice sounds a little high and tense. "That would be terribly bad."

Killian is unsure how exactly to get himself out of the hole he's managed to dig. He isn't fit to converse with any woman, let alone a princess. "But we'll be alright, on the morrow," he ventures.

He hopes she takes that as the apology it was meant to be, because he doesn't think he can come up with a better one right then. He's tired, and cold and hungry and he can't figure out which of these feelings is the most pressing at that moment. The world inside the cave is already dark, but now it's starting to swirl and he hopes that the princess doesn't say anything for a while because he just needs a minute to gather his thoughts so he doesn't babble like an idiot again.

He drifts, like he's floating on the ocean, and then he's gone.

**Thanks for reading!**


	3. Chapter 3

Emma wakes up with a combined snort and gasp that is anything but ladylike. But she has other more pressing problems than just remaining decorous. First up is where the hell she is. She's wedged into an odd contortion, her cheek against something bony and a heavy weight on her back and something kind of warm against her neck. Opening her eyes she sees one boot.

In a rush the events of the night before are replayed in her head and she is aware of exactly where she is and, most importantly, who the errant boot belongs to.

Panicking, Emma sits up suddenly and hears a grunt behind her as she rolls her shoulders to throw off the weight pressed against them.

Turning to face Lieutenant Jones she isn't sure what to say to him. The cave is still a little gloomy, but it's the first time there's really been enough light to look at him properly, and her realisation that he is, indeed, the sailor who'd been watching her on the boat makes her shy. Especially given the knowledge that they somehow ended up twisted together in their sleep, her head on his knee and, Emma guesses, his chest pressed up against her back and his face on her neck.

There is also no denying that he is handsome; different from his brother, certainly, but handsome all the same. His dark hair is decidedly messy and she can see the stubble on his jaw, but none of it detracts from the fact he has one of the most pleasing faces she's ever seen. It just adds to the amount of discomfort Emma is currently experiencing being in his presence. She's not used to being alone with any man who isn't family or a trusted retainer, and none of those make her feel this uncomfortable just because their eyes are so blue.

Lieutenant Jones drops his gaze and looks around the floor of the cave, before picking up his discarded waistcoat and shrugging it on. "Still wet," he murmurs.

"Well, so am I," Emma says, meaning to commiserate with him. But the way he keeps his eyes averted suggests that maybe her words sounded more like a rebuke than she intended.

It hits her that she isn't the only one of them facing a few truths in the morning light, and that, to this man, there is now no denying that he is alone in the company of a princess and, more to the point, spent at least part of the night using her as a pillow.

Emma isn't sure that telling him she didn't really mind is the right thing to do, so she tries to think of something else to say instead. It takes a moment or two and an awkward silence, but she then realises that, probably, sitting in the cave as they are doing is the worst possible choice they could make.

"Let's go outside," she suggests. "And see if they've come back yet." She doesn't wait for an answer from Lieutenant Jones, because, honestly, it's a little tense between them at the moment and she isn't sure she really wants to watch him become overly apologetic about the whole sleeping on top of her thing.

Not when they're about to get rescued.

When Emma clambers down from the cave she sees the storm is passing, but the sky is still a gunmetal grey and the sea choppy. The wind immediately sends her hair into her face and she pushes it away impatiently, scanning the horizon and seeing…nothing. There is no ship there of any description.

"They're not here," she says as the lieutenant comes to join her. Her voices sounds small and sad and while she wishes it didn't, she's painfully aware that the tiny bubble of hope she has been clinging to is now floating away from her.

"No," the lieutenant says, perhaps a little redundantly. Emma turns to look at him, and the way he flicks his eyes down to the sand and runs his tongue along his bottom lip makes her think he's going to say something. Worse, she thinks it will be something conciliatory, designed to comfort her in her darkest hour.

If he tries to comfort her, she thinks, she'll be sorely tempted to punch him in the arm. Hard. Just as she would do if he were one of her brothers. She's not in the mood to be comforted by anyone, let alone some strange man she only just met.

"I thought…" he begins, and then she watches as he swallows. "I mean, your highness, we discussed the possibility of rescue last night, and…well, it won't happen." He raises an arm and gestures out at sea. "Look, the winds are all wrong and they won't dally about near the shoreline waiting for them to change. No, I'm almost certain they would have headed for home."

"No…" the word escapes her lips before Emma can stop it. "They  _wouldn't_." She's well aware of what they discussed the previous night, but somehow that seemed like the worst case scenario. A litany of all the things they'd have to do if they were really stranded here, but none of them would ever actually be required because things would work out, somehow. Things always worked out if you just believed they would.

Didn't they?

"I'm afraid they would. We're not among friends, your highness. And it's just too dangerous to keep sailing about out there in the hope that the winds allow them to come back for us. Not that they know where we bloody are, of course."

"Well, couldn't we do something? Light a fire, perhaps? And then when someone passes they'll know we're here?"

The lieutenant shakes his head. "I don't think we particularly want to be noticed by every ship that passes by. Most of them will not be friendly." He sighs. "This is probably the worst place we could have ended up."

Emma can't help but notice that the lieutenant has allowed the annoyance he's no doubt feeling to creep into his voice.

Emma's more than annoyed now, though. She's absolutely furious. It isn't fair that she's ended up here, on this stupid beach with this stupid officer telling her exactly why she's going to be stuck here for the foreseeable future. She picks up a rock and hurls it into the sea. But she still doesn't feel better so she throws another one. And then another.

"I am so  _bloody_  angry!" she yells after the last rock she throws, feeling that 'bloody' is a particularly useful word for summing up her feelings right then. She feels a little bit better at getting that out of her system, at least she does until she turns to Lieutenant Jones and notices he's smiling at her.

The urge to punch him returns in force.

"I am not sure what the sea has done to earn your wrath, your highness." he says, pointing out at the waves. "But really, that is not the enemy we should be worried about at the moment."

Emma considers this. "Well, yes. But we do have the rocks at least. Maybe if we made a pile of them so there are some to hand?"

She thinks she's offering a useful suggestion but the look on the lieutenant's face shows he's taking her anything but seriously. "What?" she demands.

Lieutenant Jones is at least not laughing outright, but she can tell from the way his mouth is turning up at the corners that he's only just managing to keep his mirth contained. "I'm sure you have exceedingly good aim, your highness, but you have to admit that should a party of less than friendly individuals surprise us, rocks are only going to be useful to pick off one or two of them."

"You are making fun of me," Emma states, with as much poise as she can muster under the circumstances. Possibly the effect might have been more intimidating if she hadn't had to say it through a mouthful of hair. Scrabbling to push the errant strands out of her face she watches as Lieutenant Jones tries to carefully compose his features.

"No. I'm sorry, your highness. I was merely trying to, uh…well, ensure we don't end up doing something rash."

Emma knows that she should accept his words and simply move on to other matters, while trying to retain some of her dignity. But she's reluctant to let it go; it was bad enough that he thought her foolish for falling off the boat, now he thinks she's no idea of how to protect herself at all.

She doesn't stop to think why his opinion is so important, she just does what she does best, and blurts her retort out. "Rocks are quite useful as weapons, you know. My father still bears the scar from where my mother hit him with one before they were married."

From the slightly astonished look on the lieutenant's face Emma realises that the argument she has presented is not as persuasive as she thought it would be. "You shouldn't underestimate the damage they can do," she says, hoping that just pressing the point will get him to agree.

But he seems to have missed the point entirely. "That seems like an interesting way of showing affection, your highness."

"She wasn't being affectionate. She was trying to get him to stop pinning her to the ground. See? Rocks work."

The lieutenant's expression does not seem to show any greater understanding of what point exactly Emma is trying to make. He is frowning and looking down at his boots and, while Emma has by now realised that perhaps the story about her parents loses some of its nuances if it's not something you've grown up hearing, she's still annoyed at him for not immediately agreeing with her.

So annoyed that, as she working to grasp her hair in one hand and keep it away from her face, she says "Well, you've made the face you might as well say the words that go with it."

Lieutenant Jones turns to her sharply and she realises she's made another mistake. It's something her mother usually says, at one time or another they've all heard it. But she mostly says it to Prince David.

But she fears that explanation will just further complicate the already complicated exchange she's having with Lieutenant Jones. She almost wishes that some of her siblings were here with her, because they would understand the reference and roll their eyes and say they weren't making any face and would Emma just shut up because she's not actually their mother.

But the lieutenant just looks at her, warily, from underneath his lashes, almost as though he's afraid that making direct eye contact will just provoke her further. "Well?" she prompts.

"I'm sorry, your highness," he says, in a voice that no longer holds the candidness it did earlier, but sounds more like the speech of the people who serve her on a daily basis. "I suppose that courtship must be different amongst royals."

"No, that's not…" Emma stops and replays his words in her head, unsure if he is really that confused by her story or if he is just teasing. It's not really something she is used to. Her siblings tease her constantly, but it's a more direct kind of challenge along the lines of 'Emma smells funny' stated with the express purpose of challenging her to respond with a swift act of retribution. This is different, a lot different, and she's still not sure what the correct response to it should be.

It's becoming painfully obvious that Emma is lacking any kind of reference for these kind of interactions. She was correct when she'd stated that she wasn't used to men. Or perhaps even just people her own age.

But mostly Emma is still concerned that Lieutenant Jones thinks she was foolish enough to believe she could hold off enemy forces with a handful of rocks. She's a little unclear on who, exactly, he thinks might turn up to do them harm, but decides not to question him about it further. Instead, she will try to prove that she's not as hopeless as he seems to believe.

"Come on," she calls, causing the lieutenant to look at her again. He'd been staring out at the sea and, for all his fine words about favourable winds and best courses of action he was no doubt hoping that the boat will suddenly appear on the horizon.

"What's your plan then? If it doesn't involve hoarding rocks?" She stands there, twisting her hair in her hands and waiting for an answer from the lieutenant.

He turns and stares at the cave they emerged from and the rocky incline next to it. "I suppose," he says, slowly, "that we set off, your highness."

"Up there?"

"Aye."

Emma is tempted to stand around and debate the merits of Lieutenant Jones' suggestion, partly on principle, and partly because she doesn't really like the idea of climbing up the rocks. But the wind is annoying her and she thinks that arguing with him isn't going to achieve anything because he doesn't understand half the points she is trying to make. She hadn't realised until now just how easy it was to be part of a big family where everyone understood everyone else, even when they didn't want to.

"Fine," she says in the end, and the lieutenant waits for a moment, as though he's expecting further instructions from her, and then he begins to walk towards the rocky cliff. Emma tucks her hair as best she can into the neck of her dress and follows.

The climb up the rocks gives Emma time to focus on things other than her predicament, or the fact that her predicament includes being stuck with the man she's following up the steep incline. He turns once or twice to look at her and Emma isn't entirely sure whether it's because he wants to offer help, or just to check that she hasn't fallen to her doom. At any rate, she keeps her focus on hauling herself up, despite being hampered by skirt and hair and stupid, stupid slippers and she pointedly doesn't look at him.

Reaching the top Emma finds herself in a landscape unlike any she's ever seen before. If she needed a reminder that she wasn't in the Enchanted Forest anymore, she certainly now has one. What Emma had thought were low clouds she now sees are puffs of steam rising from a grey, rocky landscape that looks like someone scraped away the earth that should have been on top. And the most awful smell was all pervading.

"What is that?" Emma asks, wishing she had a clothes-peg for her nose.

"Sulphur, your highness. It's…because of all the, uh, geothermal activity."

"It was better when we were just looking at those cliffs from the sea," Emma mutters because interesting geological features are all very well until you're faced with walking through them. Or actually smelling them. "It smells like every henhouse in the realm has been cursed and all the eggs rotted. Or the room my brothers sleep in. One of those, anyway."

It is a truly awful experience. "How do you know what it is, anyway?" she asks Lieutenant Jones, hoping that conversation might keep her mind off it.

"Oh. Well. I…uh, read about the area."

Emma looks around again, but there is still not much to see save barren, steaming landscape. And it all smells disgusting. "Why on earth would you be interested in this?"

Lieutenant Jones looks at the steam rising from the ground, his hands clasped behind his back in the formal way all military people have when they're addressed. At least, when they're addressed by Emma, or her parents, or anyone else in the royal household. Emma wishes he wouldn't because it makes her uncomfortable, like she's supposed to keep up appearances as well and really, she's beyond smiling and looking politely interested right at that moment. What she wants is someone who'll just answer her questions without thinking of the correct response first.

And, really, that's not too much to ask from the person who spent half the night sleeping on top of you, is it?

After a moment he sighs and says quietly "Because you were, your highness."

"Were what?"

"Interested. In the Pink Cliffs, anyway." He turns to look at her. "When I heard we were sailing to look at them, I read about the area."

"Oh. I wasn't…I mean. It was my sister, Princess Eva, who wanted to see them." Emma means her words to be somewhat of an apology to the lieutenant as she can think of nothing worse than having to read a boring book just because someone else is interested.

"I see." The lieutenant still sounds as formal and stiff and he did previously and Emma suspects her apology wasn't quite what he wanted. These things seem to run much smoother when she can just move on to the next person eager to meet a royal and impress her with their knowledge.

Emma decides to wait and see what the lieutenant does next rather than rush on with any further foolish words. For a while he just seems to watch the steam as it drifts around, before he says, as much to himself as to Emma, "We should probably start walking."

Emma follows him into the steam because he seems to have a plan and what choice does she have anyway? Standing around just allows the smell to permeate her nostrils further and knowing that the cause is the sulphur doesn't make it any the less awful.

She follows him past the large pool of water with its steamy canopy, and further on through the weird orangey-grey landscape. It's only when she hears a dull 'plop' coming from what appears to be a puddle that curiosity gets the better of her. "What's that?" she asks, peering at it through the steam.

"Boiling mud, your highness. Just…don't fall in."

She gives him an indignant look but fails to muster much of a defence. She did fall off a boat and the grip of her slippers has hardly improved since then. If anything, after their climb up from the beach, they're in danger of falling apart altogether.

Emma eyes the pool of boiling mud warily, and begins to edge past it, holding her skirts as close to her body as she can and making sure she checks her footing with each step. The mud continues to bubble next to her in a way that Emma feels is slightly menacing.

"Perhaps you should take my hand, your highness?" Emma tears her eyes away from the bubbling mud to look at the lieutenant and his extended hand. He may have asked her a question, but it's clear that he's done so only to follow protocol. He expects she'll take the proffered hand.

And she does, because while she may be eager to prove she is not helpless, she doesn't want to accidentally slip into the mud while she's doing it.

It is certainly easier, having someone to hold on to. And it's not so bad, Emma decides, holding Lieutenant Jones' hand. There have been so many awkward moments between them in the short time since they awoke that she's pleased this isn't one of them. And it will stay that way as long as she pretends she's just holding on to the hand of a loyal subject who's duty-bound to help a princess across dangerous terrain, and not the hand of a man not that much older than herself who she finds…interesting.

At least that's the description of Lieutenant Jones she'll admit to herself. Despite his appalling taste in reading matter.

Once they are past the worst of the steaming, boiling pools of nastiness Lieutenant Jones drops Emma's hand and gazes at the trees that have been brave enough to grow along the edge of the molten landscape. Emma steels herself, and asks the question that's been burning in her brain since their conversation regarding rocks on the beach.

"So…do you know where we are? I mean, if you've read up on the area, then you must know which kingdom this is, mustn't you?"

He doesn't answer her for a moment, and during that time she hears all the possible answers in her head, liking very few of them. "I believe, your highness, this is part of King George's kingdom."

"I see." Those two words are all she can trust herself to speak for a moment. And she is definitely avoiding looking at the lieutenant while she tries to compose herself. But she can only resist for so long and, when she does sneak a glance in his direction, he looks concerned for her. His dark brows are drawn in and his lips are pressed together and his eyes are just searching her face as though he's trying to figure out what she needs.

But she doesn't need anything. "Now I wish you hadn't dissuaded me from stockpiling rocks. I could have stuffed some in my gown. I think they may come in handy." His expression lightens only slightly and she is momentarily angry with him. How dare he treat her like a helpless imbecile?

Hunger, and tiredness and the enormity of their situation soon catch up with her emotional state and her anger fades as rapidly as it appeared leaving her wishing, fervently, that her father would appear on the horizon, sword at the ready, and whisk her home just like the time she followed one of the nursery maids on her homeward journey and ended up in a village, alone, at dusk unsure whether the better option was to attempt a return to the castle or just to stay put and hope for the best.

Prince David is nowhere to be seen and she is still alone, save for the lieutenant.

"He tried to stop me being born, you know?" she says to him, unsure why she suddenly feels like being candid. "Well, all of us, I suppose. King George cursed my mother so she wouldn't be able to bear children. But the curse was broken and here I am in the kingdom he still holds while he, no doubt, continues to nurse such a grudge against my parents. He won't fight them directly; I don't think he could muster the support for a campaign these days. But…it will be…if he finds I am here the outcome won't be a pleasant one…given that my very existence vexes him so much."

"I doubt he will find us," the lieutenant says, and she looks at him, hoping that what he's saying is the truth and not simply the right words to placate a worried princess. "After all, no one really knows we're here. And this place…" he sweeps his arm around. "It's the arse-end of nowhere. Hardly teeming with spies."

He smiles at her and she can't help but smile back. And agree with him. "I think arse-end is a very apt term. It certainly suits the odour we're stuck with."

Lieutenant Jones looks a little abashed at that, and she can see a hint of red creeping up his neck. "I'm sorry, your highness. I forgot the company I was in for a moment. I shouldn't have used such language."

"Oh, it's quite alright. I think under the circumstances we can afford to speak freely. And I'm sure it's a very useful phrase, and one I might find quite handy the next time my mother suggests we visit the dwarf mines. Again."

Lieutenant Jones nods in agreement, and then holds out his hand to Emma. They are past the most treacherous ground now, and really it's just a matter of stumbling over rocks and dirt towards the shelter of the trees.

But even so, she takes his hand again. Just because it's nicer to be holding on to someone than not.

They travel on through the trees as the clouds clear and the sun finally appears. Emma hopes that her dress might dry a little more, although it is clearly ruined and she will need to find something else to wear. Lieutenant Jones' uniform is at least faring better but she worries that if they encounter anyone it will be easily recognisable as military in origin.

A little way through the trees familiar clouds of steam appear. Emma is less than enthused about the prospect of negotiating her way through more boiling mud, but when they reach the source of the steam it's a deep-green pool of water, rather than an ugly mud puddle.

Lieutenant Jones walks over and peers at the water. "It might be a suitable temperature for bathing," he announces.

"Oh?" Emma feigns polite disinterest, although the prospect of a bath is intensely appealing at that moment. Still, the idea brings with it a whole other raft of problems, such as the prospect of disrobing in the presence or, at the very least, near proximity of the lieutenant.

She watches as he dips first a stick, then a leaf and finally his own hand into the water, hoping that he isn't going to end up horribly burnt in the process. Satisfied with his investigations, he turns back to Emma. "I think it will be fine, your highness."

"Well. That's good." Emma isn't sure what the protocol is, but she certainly isn't about to start removing her dress.

"I'll give you some privacy and see if there's another pool elsewhere, your highness," the lieutenant says, and he starts off through the trees, just as Emma realises she's stuck in her dress without someone to help her.

"Uh, Lieutenant Jones?" He turns back to her. "How are you with buttons?"

It's a little disconcerting, having Lieutenant Jones fumbling about with the buttons on the back of her dress. "I don't often have to undress myself," Emma explains.

"No. Well I don't suppose you could, your highness, unless you're far more flexible than the average person."

Emma smiles at that, but it's a half-hearted one as she can't help feeling a little helpless. It's ridiculous that a grown person can't even remove her own clothing. And now she has a man she barely knows touching the back of her dress, smoothing her hair out of the way and accidentally brushing her skin. She might as well be a doll or some other inanimate object stuck being pushed and pulled about.

Emma blinks back tears as she hears the lieutenant say that he'll leave her now, and then she hears his footsteps moving off through the trees.

Alone, she feels a little better and considerably more capable. She takes the opportunity to relieve herself and, with the help of a sharp piece of stone, tear a strip from her shift to use as a fresh rag. After some internal debate she buries the old rags shallowly and covers the spot with a rock.

Feeling somewhat accomplished and with a last look around to check she really isn't being spied on, she removes the rest of her clothing and slips into the warm water. The chill that had sunk into her bones when she hit the water the previous night disappears and she forgets, for a moment, that she is in a pool surrounded by mossy rocks, and when her eyes are closed it's almost like she's home again.

She keeps her eyes closed for a long time.

But she can't put off the inevitable forever. She turns a corner of her shift into a makeshift towel and struggles back into her garments as best she can. They are, at least, almost dry now as Emma had laid them in the sun before bathing.

The buttons are still an issue and the lieutenant was correct in saying she couldn't fasten them without altering the way her arms were connected to the rest of her body. She gives up on the attempt and sits down on a rock, putting her hair in a rather rough braid.

A comb would be useful.

Also soap. And clean, dry clothes. And something to eat, as her stomach is rumbling again.

After a few minutes she wonders where the lieutenant is. And if he is coming back. Suddenly it doesn't feel quite such a relief to be alone. She'd intended to wait for his return and grant him the privacy he'd granted her, but her worries won't be quietened and she calls out for him.

Emma isn't certain if he thought she was in danger or difficulty, but he appears through the trees almost instantly looking concerned. He is also only half-dressed, having removed his shirt and waistcoat and not replaced them before answering her call.

"You needed me, your highness?"

"Oh. I just…well. I hoped you were safe. Also, I still have the problem with my buttons." She gestures over her shoulder and tries to avert her gaze from the lieutenant's chest. Clearly, she does a very poor job of it as the lieutenant notices where she is looking, and blushes noticeably.

He starts to pull his shirt on carefully while avoiding Emma's gaze. "I'm sorry if I've offended you, your highness. I just thought…well, I came as fast as I was able."

"No. No, it's my fault. I'm sorry for making you think that. I didn't realise you had found somewhere to bathe as well. And I'm not offended…I'm just. Well, I'm a person who can't even fasten her own buttons. I'm not used to seeing men. Without clothes. I mean, there's all that hair." Emma wishes, desperately, that she could stop talking but her mouth seems to have developed a life of its own. She realises how far down the road from appropriate she has travelled when she sees the deep red colour the lieutenant's face and watches him fumble with his own buttons in his haste to cover up the hair on his chest that she felt the need to comment on.

"I'm sorry," she says, again, knowing it is hardly going to make the situation better. "I just…I tend to blurt things out."

Emma faces away from the lieutenant and keeps talking. "The remark I made, earlier, about making a face? My mother has said that to me more times than I care to remember." She pauses, and when there is no response, continues on. "Have you ever eaten chimera, Lieutenant?"

"No, your highness. It's not a beast served to, uh…well anywhere I have ever dined."

"Well, you're lucky then. It's like an animal ate a bunch of other animals and then regurgitated them, consumed them once again, and then they kill it and serve you the mixed stomach contents." She can't help but shiver a little at the memory. "It is truly appalling. But, if that is what is put in front of you at dinner you are not allowed to describe it in those terms to the host who has served it to you."

"That would be bad form," the lieutenant's voice agrees.

"Yes. And once you have done so, your mother will not be sympathetic if all you had to eat for dinner were the grapes that were meant to be garnish. So I'm sorry if my blunt tongue causes you discomfort. You are not the first, and I am ashamed that I haven't learnt my lesson by now." Emma pauses, and sighs. "I am often not the princess that people expect that I should be."

Emma turns and looks over her shoulder at a, now, fully dressed lieutenant. She hopes that he has regained his composure because she dreads to think how the rest of the day will fare if they are at odds with each other. As difficult at the situation is for Emma, she is under no illusions that Lieutenant Jones is finding it any easier.

"You are…" he begins, and then stops, pressing his lips together. "There is still the matter of your buttons, your highness."

He steps up behind her and begins the task of re-fastening her dress. This time his fingers are surer and there is less fumbling. "I must truly be a princess, I suppose, if I am rendered so helpless by a few buttons."

"Perhaps it is that the garment has failed you, rather than the other way around. Your highness." He fastens the last one, and steps away from her and Emma wishes she had some rather clever retort to his last remark, but sadly that is not a skill of hers. She much more at home with the blunt and thoughtless comments that litter her exchanges with others.

It has been remarked that she has her father's tact. It was probably not an inaccurate statement.

"Shall we set forth, your highness?" the lieutenant asks, and she can see that he's slipping back into that formal way again, stiff and distant and she realises that it won't do at all. She isn't used to being alone, adrift, away from the people who know her and forgive her the moments when she is blunter than she should be, when she doesn't follow protocol. The people who come for her when she is lost and scared.

None of them are in this odd, scary place with her now. It's only Lieutenant Jones. And she needs him to just…be a friend.

"Please," she says. "I think that to the person who is responsible for my buttons I could be Emma. Just Emma."

The lieutenant's eyes flick sideways and he looks as though he's about to refuse her, but he nods instead. "Emma, then. Shall we keep walking?"

"Yes. Let's go home." It's a simple, easy thing to say, but Emma suspects it won't be that easy to achieve.

**Thanks for reading!**


	4. Chapter 4

It wasn't as though Killian had never thought about being asked by a beautiful woman to help her undress, but he did feel that the experience would have been more pleasant, no doubt for the both of them, if she wasn't quietly crying while he desperately tried to get her buttons undone.

It was hardly living up to his fantasies.

Not that he'd had fantasies like this about Princess Emma. When he heard about the nature of the trip and the guests that were to be on board the ship he had thought that, perhaps, the most he would get was to answer a question or two she might have had about the Pink Cliffs or the terrain around them. And he had read up on the subject, just in case.

But now he realises that what he should have been studying were buttons. Or, specifically, the kind of buttons that keep the princess locked into her dress. He fumbles terribly with them; they were simply too small, and the fabric of the dress too slippery. All the while he is desperate to just retreat from the princess and her tears.

The trouble is that out of sight is not out of mind. Killian finds a small pool which is barely tepid a way from where he left the princess to bathe but he finds it difficult to concentrate on his own ablutions. He feels responsible for her now, perhaps even more so than he did the previous night.

He keeps wondering what Liam would do in these circumstances, whether he would have left the princess wandering around in the undergrowth by herself or been able to provide more reassurance that King George's army was not any immediate threat. Killian was almost certain that Liam wouldn't have simply managed to teach the princess some colourful terms not quite befitting a lady.

More to the point, he knows for a fact that the princess would not have been so completely horrified if it was Liam who had been helping her undress.

Killian feels utterly inadequate, both as the princess' protector, and as a naval officer. He isn't certain what fate awaited him when, and if, they did make it home. Jumping into the sea after her had surely been an idiotic move on his part and caused Liam a great deal of concern when his absence, along with Princess Emma's, was discovered.

And then he heard the princess calling and  _of course_  she was in trouble because he'd failed her once again. There was probably some kind of giant eel that had emerged from the depths of the pond and was, right at that moment, devouring her and, should he ever make it back to the Enchanted Forest, he would be princess-less and utterly disgraced.

But when he finds her again there is no eel, or anything else terrifying, save the buttons that she expects him to once again do battle with. Clearly, however, the princess cannot say the same. It's more than obvious from the way she looks at him with a kind of fascinated horror that he should have stopped long enough to get properly dressed again before he ran back to her.

He won't make that mistake again.

And the situation is not improved when she averts her eyes and starts babbling about chimeras, making it more than obvious that the only thing she can think of in relation to Killian are monsters and, possibly, hunger.

While Killian is struggling with that himself it isn't, perhaps, as bad as the worry he feels in the pit of his stomach when he has to face buttoning the princess' dress once again. The princess makes a valiant attempt to lighten the mood, cursing the design of the gown she is wearing and Killian is mildly pleased with the retort about her dress failing her that he conjures in response, thinking that it sounds an awful lot like something Liam would say. It doesn't quite manage to remove the sadness from her voice but she does decide that Killian should be granted the privilege of calling her by her first name.

Only it doesn't feel like a privilege to Killian. It feels like a burden. He'd much prefer to pretend that she's not a person but some kind of very rare object that he just has to keep in one piece until it returns back to where it came from. You don't have to worry about an object getting itself killed, or whether it's about to burst into tears, or, especially, whether you'll enjoy touching it far, far too much.

There is nothing for it, though, but to acquiesce with her proposal and hope that the princess…no, Emma is who is she is supposed to be to him now…remembers that they are not, and are never going to be friends.

At first there is what feels like an awkward silence between them as they trudge onwards. The princess breaks it first. "I did appreciate the chance to bathe," she says, in a quiet and overly polite voice that sounds not at all like the person who'd been lamenting the choice to put chimera on the menu.

"I'm glad." He presses his lips together and manages to hold in the 'your highness' which threatens to slip out. Killian suspects the princess notices, but she doesn't say. Mostly she is distracted by her hair.

"Oh, for goodness' sake," she mutters, as the strands unravel from the braid she'd put them in. Killian had noticed her struggling with her hair on the beach and, as much as he admires it, he can imagine that it is somewhat of a burden. His own hair is a tangled mess; the ribbon that usually ties it back lost in the sea and his hasty retreat from the pond not allowing him any time to remedy the situation earlier.

"Look, you hold it for me as I gather it, and then I'll just try tying it back, alright?" she says to him, and Killian nods before stepping forward to take hold of her hair.

It's probably the closest they've been since awaking that morning and oddly not as uncomfortable as he might have suspected. Still, there is no denying that her proximity is far too alluring and he shifts a little from foot to foot as the princess gathers up errant strands of hair to add to that he's already holding.

"Alright. I'll just tie this around it." The princess wraps what appears to be part of her clothing around the hair and ties it in a bow. "What do you think?"

"Very, uh…practical."

Clearly that was not the right answer to give. She narrows her eyes at him and Killian tries to think of a better compliment. "The tie, uh…well it matches your dress. I suppose it was a part of your dress previously, but…"

He stops abruptly when the princess reaches up and grasps a handful of his own hair. "Yours is almost as bad," she mutters. He has no reply to that at all and is torn between pushing her away and pulling her closer. In the end his mind seems to settle on simply being embarrassed about the whole thing and he can feel himself blushing.

"You know," she says, continuing to run her fingers through his hair, pulling it back from his face. "The next time I travel anywhere by boat I will remember to sew a comb into my corset in case I get marooned anywhere. It would be awfully useful about now."

"Mmm," is about all he can manage in reply, certain there was something about her speech that he didn't completely agree with, but not remembering what it was now. Not when her fingers keep moving through his hair and she's standing so close and at the mention of corset he immediately looked down and the view of the princess' bosom over the top of hers was simply too alluring.

He's never wished to be standing next to a non-breathing marble statue more in his life.

"Do you have anything to tie it with?" she asks and it's a moment before he can reply to tell her that he hasn't. "Never mind," she continues, unconcerned. "I'll just…"

The princess' hands disappear from his hair and he is at first bereft but, slowly, as rational thought returns, he realises she's trying to pull a ribbon from her own dress. "I can't get it. Will you give this a good tug for me?"

He looks at where the ribbon is positioned on her waist. It could be worse; it could be higher. Or maybe that would be better. He can't really tell, and is reluctant to do as she asks.

"Won't that rip the dress?" he asks.

"Phfft. It's rags now anyway. Everything I'm wearing is. My slippers have all but perished, my shift is missing a few pieces I had to rip away. I'll have to find something else, and soon. But in the meantime your hair is annoying me. So, just pull it off."

It's all he can do not to close his eyes as he tries tugging the ribbon, gently at first. "Harder," the princess commands. "Honestly, have you ever met a royal seamstress? They don't do anything by halves. You're going to have to really go for it."

Killian does as she instructs, the ribbon coming away in his hand. The momentary relief he feels at being able to step away from her again disappears as soon as she steps behind him and her hands are back in his hair. To distract himself, he attempts conversation. Poorly.

"Speaking of…uh, rags. You are…that is, I mean…you found something?" He immediately regrets the question, and thinks it is probably not something he should have asked.

But the princess is nothing if not verbose on the worst topics. "I used part of my shift. See?" She steps around him, lifting her dress and he tries not to look at the legs she exposes in the process. Then she is back behind him fixing his hair.

"I'll have to find something better, but it will do for now. Luckily I'm not bleeding all that much anymore, and I'm well past the crampy stage which is downright unpleasant. If it was the  _first_  day of my bleeding then I doubt I'd be going anywhere without a large dose of pain powder. So it could be worse, I guess."

The princess is awfully quick at picking up on his lack of response. "I suppose really a simple 'yes' would have sufficed wouldn't it?" She sighs. "I'm sorry. I forget that you're…well. Anyway, that's a big improvement in your hair, don't you think?"

She moves away from him and Killian feels for where she has, indeed, now tied his hair back for him. "It is. Thank-you, your highness."

"Emma!" She accompanies her remonstrance with a slap on his arm which he assumes is meant to be playful, but somehow hurts more than he thinks it should.

There is another awkward moment where neither of them seem to know what to do next. Luckily the princess is all business when she speaks again. "So, how far do you think it is? To home?"

"I don't know, exactly…" Killian hopes that she won't keep pressing for a more accurate assessment. If he was on the  _Jewel_ , if he had access to a sextant or charts or anything else that would actually help him navigate then he might be able to give her a better answer, but, sadly, he is stuck in a forest of scrubby trees and bushes and there is nothing here that will give him any clue.

The princess…Emma…the person who is, inconveniently not an object, looks as though she is considering that statement. "Are we actually closer to King Midas' kingdom? Than home?" she asks in the end, perhaps a little hopefully. "I just thought that…well it borders King George's kingdom, doesn't it? I mean…the southern end does. So perhaps it's nearer to where we are now?"

"I couldn't say." Killian pretends not to notice the way her shoulders slump at his words. "But, granted, it is a possibility."

"It was just a thought," she mumbles. "I was hoping we could go there."

"You know people there?"

"My godmother, Princess Abigail."

"The Princess Regent?"

"Yes." She nods enthusiastically. "I spent last summer with her. It was…" The princess stops speaking and appears to be searching for a word. Unfortunately she also stops walking as she does so and, while Killian realises that the journey will be a long one, it will be even longer if this occurs on a regular basis.

He considers suggesting they should ban conversation when she finally appears to find the term she wanted to use. "Interesting."

Killian is quite certain that such a pedestrian term shouldn't have required such a long pause in their journey, and, despite the fact he tells himself that provoking further conversation could lead to interminable delays he can't help but point that out to the princess.

"Are you merely being polite, your…" He pulls himself up short before the final word slips out.

"You were supposed to call me Emma," she retorts, frowning at him and pursing her lips. Her eyes give away though that she is far from mad and he finds that the playfulness in her expression is just…utterly confusing. He looks away but she continues on, blithely. "And of course I'm being polite. I can be sometimes, you know."

"They do say that Midas' palace is quite something to behold," he states, trying to get back on a more equal footing with the…Emma…person. Landmarks seem to be a much safer topic of conversation.

"Do they? Was that in a book too?" She sighs. "You don't have to answer. Yes, it's gold. All of it. But it's not like I had time to stand around and admire it…or do much of anything, really."

"It was not an enjoyable holiday?"

"She's lovely…Princess Abigail. But she and Duke Frederick only had boys." The princess makes a face, eyes widened and eyebrows raised that suggest to Killian he should understand the significance of this remark.

But he's a little lost now, and wishing the gold palace was back in the conversation. "And that's not a good thing?"

"Not for me," she grumbles. "Because she's desperate to share her thoughts on how to be a better queen."

"I see."

The princess looks at him sideways. "I bet you don't. I mean, it's not like my mother doesn't try to impart her wisdom to me all the time. But she's more about understanding the feelings of your subjects and learning that not everyone is as privileged as we are. Princess Abigail believes that if you read every single law book in the kingdom then you can best anyone in an argument. I barely went outside the whole summer. There were tests! I failed some, can you believe it? At least Mama has never expected me to learn all the intricacies of how to mine diamonds, or the hierarchy of fairies, or…or…Oh! My mother!"

Killian had been mesmerised by the sudden animation in the princess' demeanour as she lamented her fate at the hands of the Princess Abigail, watching her eyes widen in horror at the memory of the hated examinations, and her hands jab at the air and now, with the sudden change in the subject he is floundering around just as much as he was in the sea the night before.

"That's it!" the princess continues, as though everything is obvious to both of them.

"Fairies?" he ventures. "I'm not sure how you'd go about finding any around here…"

"No. My mother. We can get a message to my mother. I just need…" The princess starts scanning the trees hopefully. "A bird."

"You can speak to birds?"

"No. Not a jot." She looks back over her shoulder at him and shrugs. "Yet another thing I didn't inherit. Eva can. Leo too. But not me!" The forced jollity of that last statement is jarring but the princess continues on, the words tumbling out. "But I don't have to understand them, they just have to understand me."

"So, any bird?"

"Well, it needs to be able to fly back to the Enchanted Forest but otherwise, yes." Now set on her task the princess starts to walk rapidly towards an area where the trees are taller and denser, with a thick growth of dark-green ferns beneath them. "I bet there will be something in here," she announces, before crashing her way through the undergrowth.

"Aye, but you'll have to be careful not to frighten them off." Killian follows her into the darkness, his eyes taking a few moments to adjust to the slanting rays of sunshine.

The princess stops, sighing impatiently. "Alright. Well help me look, then."

Killian cranes his neck skyward and hopes for a glimpse of something feathered. Intent on his task he neglects to notice how close the princess has drifted and, taking a step to the right, he realises, far too late, that he has trod on her foot.

"Ow!" The princesses' voice is loud in his ear and he bites back his initial inclination to remind her to watch out for others around her. It's something that happens from time to time on board ship, of course, when everyone is working in a small space and just trying to get on with the job at hand. But, in those circumstances, one party isn't disadvantaged by being shod in footwear which is designed on the principle of form over function.

The worst part, he realises, is the initial look of shock in her eyes, as though she can't believe he actually hurt her. She is balanced on one foot now, rubbing the injured one and swaying slightly and Killian thinks about reaching out to steady her but decides that it is not the time to try touching her again.

The outraged eyes are bad enough, the tears coming back would certainly be worse.

He settles for making an apology. "I'm so sorry your…"

The princess cuts him off. "It's Emma, remember?" she snaps.

"Yes, I am quite aware of your name." He curses the fact his reply is more curt than he would have liked, but he feels more than a little put upon, now. Certainly there's no denying the fact that he stepped on her foot, but he can't help but feel that some of the blame lies with the princess who wants to just be Emma for getting in his way in the first place. Or even for just falling off the bloody deck of the  _Jewel_ and starting this whole debacle.

"And yet you seem so reluctant to use it." The way her head tilts to the side and her eyebrows raise are clearly a challenge.

"Fine," he huffs, not prepared to back down completely. "I am so deeply sorry for injuring your delicate foot,  _Emma_." He finishes with a deep bow from the waist, accompanied by a waving hand that is bordering on mocking.

"Humph. You don't have to be quite so obsequious about it…" She pauses, the haughty expression she's adopted fading rapidly into a frown. Killian guesses this is the moment when she realises that while she has been prodding him to use her name, she has completely forgotten his. There's a small flash of triumph as he figures that he might have the upper hand and he is about to open his mouth and remind her of his name, when he notices the blush colouring her cheeks and the way her eyes have begun scanning the ground in a, no doubt, completely fruitless search for birdlife.

He supposes that it's not something she's used to, having to remember the names of the people who are there to do her every bidding and be mindful of where her feet are at all times. They're just part of the background. And, as much as Killian had wanted to pretend that the princess was some kind of object, he assumes that she would also find it easier to just treat him no differently to those other servants she is used to having trail around after her.

She is making somewhat of an effort, and perhaps he should as well.

He is attempting to think of a way to alert her to the fact of his name when she does what she always seems to do in moments of acute embarrassment; she lets her mouth run away with her. "I suppose I should be used to the fact you always want to be on top of me by now," the princess blurts out, her eyes still on the ground.

Killian stops puzzling about his name and his mind wanders down a path that really only leads to somewhere quite inappropriate. He blames the fact that his first reaction is to blurt out "I have no idea what you mean," in a voice that rises embarrassingly in pitch on the fact that he is annoyed at his own mind for entertaining such lewd thoughts about the princess.

"Well, if you're not standing on me, you're sleeping on top of me," she says with a sigh, skirts swishing as she side-steps around a fallen branch.

Killian remembers waking up in a tangle with the princess and, belatedly, wishing he'd had more time to actually enjoy the contact rather than just worrying that he'd drooled on her neck. He now isn't certain whether apology or denial is the better tactic. Or, perhaps, a jibe about whether she thinks it was appropriate to sleep with someone whose name she cannot remember in the morning.

No, that might be a step too far and alienate her altogether. She is nothing if not confusing; her moods changing at the drop of a hat, and her comments blunt and poorly worded. Most frustrating of all is her strategy for bird-spotting which seems to consist completely of staring at the ground in a move that, Killian thinks, is never going to yield a satisfactory result.

If she wants a bird then she should be looking up.

But then she points at something in the undergrowth. "There!"

"What?"

"A bird. I've found one!"

Killian follows the princess' gaze and watches the fern fronds shake. "That's surely something else, something bigger. It can't be a bird."

"It is," the princess insists. "I saw wings, which I think are a pretty good indication. Look, there!"

He looks and, sure enough, there is definitely  _something_  with feathers poking about under the fern, rustling dead leaves with its feet.

"I think it's a kind of…parrot," the princess says, inching forward to get a better look.

"No…it's not the right shape…" The bird emerges from the undergrowth and stares at them unblinkingly. "And it has a face like an owl."

"It doesn't look anything like an owl," the princess counters. The bird seems to suddenly notice that it is the centre of attention, and lets out a squawk while tilting its head to one side to view them better.

"And that's clearly not an owl noise," she continues. "So it's a parrot. And you have to think that a parrot that big must be able to fly a long way."

She hasn't exactly phrased that as a question, but Killian suspects she's looking for reassurance that her plan will work. He'd like to give it to her, but he is a little unconvinced. "I don't know if those wings would hold it. I mean, it's awfully round, don't you think? It looks far more like something you'd pluck and roast."

As if it can understand the words he's said, the bird stares him down and lets out another, louder squawk.

"Please don't offend it before I have a chance to ask," the princess hisses to Killian.

"Fine. But I still don't think it can fly," he hisses back, watching the bird as it edges towards them.

There's a squawk from overhead and both they and the bird look up to see another pair of greeny-brown wings high in the treetops. "See?" the princess says, gaily. "They can obviously fly because how else would a bird get up there. Plus, I think this one likes me. I'm going to try talking to it."

She doesn't appear to be mistaken about the bird liking her as it has now finished edging forward and is nibbling the edge of her gown in an exploratory kind of way. Killian watches as the princess crouches down and the bird stops nibbling and stares at her with unblinking eyes.

"I'm very sorry to, uh…disturb you," she begins. "Mr Bird. Or Mrs. I don't want to offend you." She pauses, and the bird doesn't do anything other than continue staring, so the princess continues on. "I wish to request, most humbly, your assistance with a…very important matter of state."

There's another pause while the bird looks over its shoulder and squawks, loudly, as if alerting its companion to what is taking place. The princess, sensing she's losing the bird's interest, starts again, this time in a muddled blur of hasty words rather than carefully chosen phrases. "Look, I'm sorry. This isn't really my forte. My mother, she is excellent with your kind. With everyone, really. She'd know what to say. I just want to ask if you…if it's not too much trouble. Could you go and tell her I'm alright? That I'm not dead and that I…" This time the princess looks at Killian, as though judging how much to give away in front of him. "I miss her. She's my mother, and she'll be worried. I just want her to know that I'm not dead."

The bird cocks its head and shakes out its feathers before starting to turn away. "Oh!" the princess adds, quickly, and the bird stops and Killian could almost swear that it is actually listening to her words. "I should say. My mother…she's Snow White. Queen, of the Enchanted Forest. I know it's a long flight, but I'm sure that wings as sturdy as yours could fly there and back, and I'd be so, so grateful. We both would." She turns to Killian again and this time there's a smile on her face. He can't help but return it.

The bird stretches out its wings and shakes its head and Killian wonders whether this is a mere display or an attempt at communication. He's still not convinced that the thing can actually fly.

And then it turns and starts to walk off. "Are you sure it understood?" he asks the princess.

"Birds are smarter than they seem," she retorts, straightening up again.

"I have no doubt of that." If anything Killian thinks that the bird is trying to tell them something, opening and closing its wings several times before running a short distance and running back. It seems to be quite quick at covering the distance. For a bird.

"I wonder if I need to say anything else…like give it a direction to fly in?" the princess muses.

Killian holds his tongue for fear that another comment about the unlikelihood of this bird to get off the ground will only serve to earn him more of the princess' scorn. Still, he cannot shake the impression that the bird is trying its hardest to impart that information to the princess itself.

After another few moments spent watching the bird perform the odd little dance, it appears to give up and starts off towards the tree where its companion has been sitting all this time. "Do you think it's going to leave soon?" the princess asks plaintively.

They watch as the bird begins to ascend the tree, using only its claws and break to climb the trunk. Its wings appear to be useful only for balance. Halfway up it turns and Killian could swear it gives them an apologetic shrug, before it goes back to climbing. The other bird passes it on the trunk of the tree, climbing down in much the same fashion, before it pushes off and glides to the ground, landing in an undignified heap. It picks itself up, stares at Killian and the princess curiously, before setting off at a fast run through the undergrowth.

Killian dares to look in the princess' direction and finds her staring open-mouthed at the birds. "I just…no, that's  _not_  right." She turns to Killian. "It can't fly?"

"I believe that's the case. Yes."

He braces himself for the reply that doesn't come. Instead she turns and starts walking quickly through the undergrowth, pushing through ferns noisily and causing an alarmed squawk from their new friend above them. And then she stops, suddenly, as though she's found an invisible barrier, and she crashes to the ground in a heap, much as the bird he'd witnessed only moments before had done.

Killian walks over to her, as carefully as they had approached the bird earlier. He's worried about her throwing things again and perhaps this time using him as a target. But as soon as he sees the slump of her shoulders and the way she is picking at a frayed seam on her dress he realises that throwing things would be infinitely preferable to this. She can't be that defeated just because she thought the bloody bird could fly, can she?

He wonders what on earth he can say to comfort her, but he doubts that anything he tries will make up for the fact that, clearly, she is missing her mother and cursing a lost opportunity to contact her. He tries, forlornly, to think what Liam would do under the circumstances but realises that even his brother would be out of his depth at this moment.

It's a terribly sobering thought.

Liam may be quite adept at polite conversation or inspiring great loyalty amongst the people he commands, but Killian does not think that his brother would be any better at providing comfort than he is himself. After all, while he has some slim chance of being a pale imitation of his brother the girl he is with is missing her mother. He has no chance at all of being able to dredge up an impersonation of one of those.

He can't even remember having one.

After a few minutes of awkward silence, with Killian hovering behind the princess as she sits on the ground she seems to rally. Or, at least, she wipes her eyes with the back of her hand and sticks her legs out straight in front of her, smoothing her tattered skirt across her legs. "Of course it couldn't fly," she says. "Bloody birds always hate me. Have you ever seen an angry bluebird?"

Killian shakes his head, and sits down beside her. "Well, it's not pretty," she continues. "And it's far worse when they can complain to your mother that you knocked over the bird-feeder again. I have no luck! I mean, I got us into this whole mess and now I can't get us out of it. I'm the worst person to be stuck with, aren't I?"

She looks at him pleadingly, clearly wanting him to deny it. "I don't think that's true at all…" he begins, but he doesn't get to say anything further as she waves a hand, rather dismissively he feels. What was the point of even asking him then if she doesn't want to hear the answer?

"If my mother  _were_ here," she continues. "She would know what to do. She could track…something, anyway. At least she could find a bird to talk to. The right sort of bird for a start. I am the most awful princess to be lost with!"

"I don't know. I mean, from your description the Princess Abigail doesn't sound like the best travelling companion."

He had hoped that would bring a smile to her face, but, if it does, it is so fleeting he misses it altogether. She sighs, noisily. "I just wish…well. I'm sorry you got stuck here. With me."

"I…" he doesn't get to finish, which he is a little glad of, not entirely certain what exactly he would say anyway.

"It's fine," she says, in a flat voice that matches her furrowed brows and pursed lips. "I don't need a bunch of empty words. I'm not that delicate."

"I had assumed as much. After all, despite all accusations of brutality towards you, I haven't managed to break you yet." Killian still hopes for a smile from the princess, and, this time, there is a small one, although she still seems more sad than amused.

"I suppose. Well, let's keep walking."

There's nothing else for it, but to follow her as she stands up and sets off. It's clear that she is still disappointed, although he is unsure if she is disappointed in herself, the bird who couldn't fly, or him. Perhaps all three. Perhaps she will remain unhappy until such time as they eventually return home and she can see her mother again.

Killian hopes she won't because, as much as he may have wished that she was some inanimate object, she is far from being one and infinitely more interesting to him as a result.

"Of course," she says, over her shoulder as she walks towards a clearer patch between the trees up ahead. "If you tread on my feet again, you might have to carry me."

"I would assume nothing less.  _Emma_."

There's silence from the princess for a few moments, and then she stops and pivots to face him, her face now sporting a broad smile of triumph. "Of course not.  _Killian_."

And then, almost before he has a chance to return her smile, she turns around again and starts walking. "We'll have to talk about the pillow situation later, though," she says. "Perhaps you might like to think about catching one of those birds?"

"I'm sure they will be a poor substitute for you. It seems a terrible step backwards, from a princess to a parrot who can't even be arsed flying anywhere."

She laughs, loud and sudden and there's a corresponding familiar squawk from somewhere up above their heads.

No, he thinks. It wouldn't be nearly as enjoyable a journey without the possibility he might make her laugh like that again. And he doesn't even care to speculate whether Liam would be capable of doing the same.

Perhaps it isn't so bad after all that she's a real girl and not a statue, after all.

**Thanks for reading!**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bird in this chapter is based on the kakapo, a flightless parrot native to New Zealand. I've also, in previous chapters, added in some landscape details based on parts of NZ, just because I can!


	5. Chapter 5

For the most part Emma is just glad she’s remembered his name.  Normally Emma has the, very real, threat of her mother’s disapproval prompting her to pay attention when people tell her who they are.  And, let’s face it, if she forgets she’s usually long moved on to the next person waiting to meet someone from the royal family.

If she was being truly honest Emma would admit that she mostly doesn’t care if she offends a lot of the stuffy dignitaries who get trotted out to greet her at events.  The only reason they pay any attention to her is the title in front of her name; without that she’d be summarily dismissed as just another silly girl hardly worth bothering about.

Strangely, perhaps, that doesn’t bother her unduly.  Well, _mostly_ it doesn’t bother her.  At the end of the day she is who she is and there’s nothing anyone else can do to change that.

But it’s different with Killian.  Maybe it’s just that the situation is different; certainly, Emma doesn’t normally find herself trekking through the wilds of goodness knows where with any of those other men who might think her lacking.  Whatever the reason, she feels like she has something to prove, especially after the debacle with the bird that couldn’t fly.  Not to mention the way he’d looked at her when she running around the beach picking up rocks.

It irks her to think that this boy…man…Killian…knows she’s completely out of her depth.  Even as she’s declaring that she’s the worst princess to be lost with, she’s hoping to think of a way to remedy the situation.  She feels that she has something to prove in a way that hasn’t ever happened before.  Not even during Aunt Abigail’s long summer study sessions.

She just wants Killian to look at her and think she’s done something _right_. 

Despite the fact she may have failed, somewhat miserably, at finding a way to get a message back to her mother, Emma isn’t prepared to give up just yet.  There is bound to be something that she can do which will earn her Lieutenants Jones’…Killian’s…approval.

The fact she cares so much about his approval isn’t something Emma is prepared to dwell on.  Not when the rumbling of her stomach has given her the perfect idea.

“We need to find some food,” she says, in what she hopes is a decisive manner.

She expects some sort of acquiescence from Killian; he must surely be feeling as hungry as she is.  But instead he nods before asking, “So you want me to retrieve the bird?”

“What?  No.  No, I can’t _eat_ it.  I introduced myself to it.  It would be like…I don’t know.  Eating you or something.”

Killian gives her a slightly appalled look.  “Well I’m so glad that the mere fact you recalled my name has saved me from becoming a princess’s breakfast.”

Emma is flummoxed by how the conversation has progressed.  She’d expected quiet agreement and then, perhaps, deferral as she outlined her plan.  She doesn’t really have a plan beyond the idea of finding food, but she still thinks that Killian should have at least _asked_ her about it and not just accused her of being a cannibal.

But she can’t think of a way of explaining that to him, so instead falls back into old habits, acting as though Killian is one of her siblings and in need of being put in his place.  So she adopts a slightly haughty expression and says “Don’t be ridiculous!  As if I’d ever be _that_ desperate.”

Right on cue her stomach rumbles again, this time loud enough for Killian to hear it from where he is standing and she expects him to make some sort of comment, but he only raises an eyebrow which is somehow worse.

All she wanted to do was make a plan to find some food and, sure, Emma had expected there’d be some discussion between Killian and herself, but not this…this…cheek, which seems out of place when they’re about to starve to death because Killian can’t take starving to death seriously.

“Let’s…just go,” she adds, perhaps a little unnecessarily but she’s desperate to try to regain some control and it’s not that she wants to order him around…but, well.  Maybe she just wants the opportunity to try.

They trudge on for a while as the trees thin out into scrubby grasses and occasional thickets.  Emma’s glad that the rocky, boiling landscape seems to be behind them, but her slippers are rapidly shredding and her feet are sore all the same, and she keeps a careful watch on where she is stepping, trying to avoid anything particularly sharp.

Because while she clearly cannot get Killian to believe that she might be of some use in finding food, she will absolutely not be a burden because she’s lost the ability to walk.

And if it also means that she doesn’t have to look at Killian’s stupid face as they walk, then it’s all the better. 

But it would be better with something to eat and Emma isn’t sure how much longer she can keep going on an empty stomach and with no relief in sight.  It isn’t a conscious decision to stop walking, more like a slow wind-down, as though she is a toy and there is no one there to set her going again.  Her steps become slower and, then, she just stops where is she is, watching Killian continue on without her.

It’s possibly for the best.  She’s only going to slow him down and maybe on his own he could find something to eat and come back for her.

Even though she thinks it might not be the worst thing if Killian just keeps walking, it’s still a relief when he stops, and turns, and realises that she’s no longer beside him.  And best of all is the feeling when he comes back for her, looking concerned.

She might not have been able to locate something to eat, but at least he’s not prepared to abandon her completely just yet.

“Are you alright?” he asks, sounding concerned, and Emma is momentarily ready to forget the fact that she’s annoyed with him and just throw herself into his arms.

But she won’t because that would be ridiculous, and that’s the last thing she wants Killian to think she is.

“I’m fine.  Just needed to stop for a moment.”

“You look a little pale.”  Killian scrutinises her face and it’s all she can do not to look away. 

“I always do!  It’s just, how we look, in our family.”  Emma doesn’t mean to snap, but he’s picked the worst time to suddenly pay attention to her and the worst thing to focus on.  He couldn’t be bothered to listen to her words earlier and now he wanted to discuss her complexion.

Killian nods at that, although he seems unconvinced by her assertion that she is, in fact, mostly still functioning.  If she could just eat something then she would surely have a clearer head.

And then she spies something on the edge of a thicket of trees, just over Killian’s shoulder.  “There!” she says, pointing.

“What?  Where?

“That tree.  There’s something on that tree.  I think it might have plums.”  Suddenly feeling mightily restored Emma walks in the direction of the tree.  It will all work out, because now she has a plan and, best of all, it’s _her_ plan and _she_ found the tree and Killian will be thankful for her sharp eyesight and stop peering worriedly at her face.

Except when she gets nearer she realises they aren’t plums at all. 

“Apples,” Killian says, joining her and craning his neck to get a better look at the fruit.

“Yes.  So, that’s no good at all.”  Emma tries to keep the disappointment out of her voice, but she can’t hide it completely. 

Killian gives her a sideways glance.  “They’re a little high up, but I think I could get some down.”  He gives a branch above his head an experimental shake, and Emma has to step to the side to avoid being hit by falling leaves.

“I don’t think so,” Emma says, but Killian is looking at the tree as though it’s a challenge, a puzzle that he has to solve, and he keeps putting on foot on a lower branch and pushing himself up to test it and Emma can’t really see the point of it. 

“No, I’ll get one.  Don’t worry.”  He gives her a broad smile and looks for all the world as though he believes he’s the hero of the moment.  And Emma is irked beyond belief.

“You can’t just eat apples you find in the middle of nowhere.  Did you mother teach you _nothing_?”  Emma’s words come out harshly and there’s a brief flash of something in Killian’s face at the word mother and Emma wonders if he’s worried about her, a consequence of her earlier sadness.  Well, he needn’t be.  Not unless he remains determined to tempt fate by trying some of the blighted fruit.

“I think the fact they are in the middle of nowhere suggests that they’re quite free from, uh…curses.”  He looks up at the apples again, and then back at Emma, no doubt expecting her to agree with him.

Well she isn’t going to.

“You think every witch can afford a whole house of candy?  Cursing apples is a far easier proposition.”

“I don’t believe they’re cursed.”  Now he’s just being stubborn, and it makes Emma’s own stubborn streak rise to the occasion.

“How can you tell?  Cursed apples don’t look any different.” 

Killian doesn’t seem to have an answer to that, he’s back testing the branch to see if it will hold him up.  He comes to a decision and pulls himself up onto it, reaching up far above his head to grab one of the apples, when an ominous creak sounds and the branch gives way, sending him crashing to the ground in a heap.

Killian lands with an groan and a muttered “Bollocks!” and, for a moment, Emma thinks she’ll have to deal with broken bones before she has to figure out how to break a curse, but, after a little more muttering, he gets up again and holds up the apple in triumph.

“I’m not eating it.”  She didn’t intend to sound quite so blunt, but she’s said it now, so she’ll stand by it.  She is not eating that apple.

Even if it is starting to look a little tempting.

“If the tree was cursed,” he says.  “Then where are all the victims?  Someone ate all the easy to reach apples, but they’re plainly not lying here, are they?”  Killian gives her a smug look as he waves his hand around.

“Well…”  Emma thinks hard because this is a test she very much doesn’t want to fail.  “Maybe the witch ate them or something?”

Killian doesn’t immediately reply, but studies the apple in his hand thoughtfully.  “No, that seems…far too complicated.  It’s just an apple.”

“So you eat it then.”

“Fine.  I will.”  Killian lifts the apple to his mouth and is about to bite when Emma feels her arm shoot out to grab his wrist and stop him.

“Just, uh…if it is cursed, who do I bring?”

“Bring?”

“Back.  Here.  To break the curse.”  Killian still looks a little confused, his eyes flicking to her hand, still on his wrist which she immediately drops.  “Say…a sweetheart, or something of the sort?”

“No!  Uh, no.”  Killian looks uncomfortably at the ground and, while Emma feels a little uncomfortable for having raised the subject, she is mostly glad that she won’t have to front up to some shopkeeper’s daughter and tell the poor girl that she let Killian get cursed in the first place.

And Emma thinks that’s a perfectly valid explanation for her relief and isn’t going to think about it further.

“Alright.  So, who else?  Mother?”  Killian shakes his head and looks even more despondent; Emma wonders if she should have just let him eat the apple and worry about who is breaking the curse afterwards.

“Well, your brother then.  I’m certain he will come.  And I’ll try and, you know, hide you or something until that happens.  So that you don’t get eaten in the meantime.  So it will be fine.”  Emma nods, encouraging Killian to carry on with eating the apple.

Only now he looks somewhat dubious about the enterprise and gazes at her over the top of it.  “You’ll hide me?”

“Your body.  You know…um, in that bush or something.”  She points to the bush in question and decides not to mention the fact that she has no idea whether or not she can drag him that far if he’s a dead weight.  Maybe she’ll just cover him in some leaves and hope for the best.  “I doubt I can rustle up a glass coffin or anything.”  She shrugs and goes back to waiting for him to take a bite.

“I don’t know…” he says, lowering the apple.  Then he looks across and catches Emma’s eye and she gives him her most encouraging smile.  “It’s like you want me to get cursed so you’ll have been right.”

“I…”  Emma stops, unsure of a response to that, and then belatedly closes her mouth after a moment of silence.  Trouble is that he’s hit the nail on the head.  Her only option, now, is denial.  Perhaps followed by a push in the right direction.

“No!  Noooo.  I’d be very sad if it happened.  Also, it will be a little lonely walking by myself, I imagine, so if you don’t want to eat it because you’re scared…”

“I didn’t say that!”

“So, then, go on.  I’ve said I’d look after you.  You have my word, and I don’t think that should be taken lightly.”  Emma has imbued the last sentence with as much dignity as she can muster because it seems like an opportune moment to remind Killian of her position.

Not that she really wants him to be cursed, or anything.  She just wants him to know that she would recognise his sacrifice appropriately.

“Fine.  If it will please your highness so greatly, I’ll do it.”  Killian takes a tentative bite, teeth scraping along the side of the apple and Emma’s never been so fascinated by watching someone eat before.  It’s no doubt because she’s so hungry herself, and, also, waiting to see if he falls down in the next second or so.

There may be other reasons, but she’ll worry about those when she knows what they’re dealing with.  In the meantime, having perceived no immediate danger, Killian has taken a second bite, much larger than the first, and she watches as juice from the apple starts to run down his chin.

“S’alrig’” he says, through his mouth full, and it’s on the tip of her tongue to rebuke him for such terrible manners when she realises just how stomach-churningly hungry she is herself and how _good_ that apple actually looks.

If Killian is eating it that fast, then it must taste nice, mustn’t it?

He seems to notice her wrapt expression and stops eating.  “I, uh…it doesn’t seem to be cursed.”

“No.”

“So…you want some?”  He holds out the apple to her, but she doesn’t take it.

“I’ve never actually had an apple.”  Emma feels ridiculously ashamed to admit this.  Surely every person in every kingdom around had eaten apples?  “We don’t usually have them.  In the castle.”

Emma’s not sure if she imagines it, but she’s almost certain something changes in Killian’s demeanour at the mention of her home.  He stands a little straighter and his eyes drop away from hers, which she doesn’t like at all.  It’s hard enough not to feel like a burden, now she just feels like an object of curiosity; an exotic bird he doesn’t know what to do with.

“I suppose it must be quite different.  Living in a castle.”

Emma nods in agreement, feeling even more uncertain now.  All she’d wanted was to get Killian to see her as someone capable of getting them home, and not the girl who cries over her dress and can’t find the right kind of bird and now he just thinks she’s some delicate princess who won’t even eat a piece of fruit.  Like that ancestor of her mothers who could apparently feel a pea through a stack of mattresses.

She hoped that one hadn’t been passed down.  It wasn’t a useful qualification to have at the best of times and it was hardly going to help them here.

There’s uncomfortable silence for a moment, then Killian holds out the apple again.  A large chunk of it is missing now, but it still looks appetising enough and Emma is just hungry and she could almost forget for a moment that Killian is watching her, curiously, as she takes the apple from his hand and bites into it, tentatively. 

“It’s crunchy.”  She’d expected it to be sweet, it was fruit after all.  But somehow she’s never thought about the texture of apples. 

Killian rushes to reassure her.  “Apples are meant to be.  It’s not a sign that it’s cursed.”

“No, I…”  Emma breaks off from her denial.  He’s probably just trying to be kind.  “Yes, of course.”

Her second bite is a lot larger than the first, and it’s hard to stop after that, not when she hasn’t eaten since they left the Maritime Kingdom the day before.

Until there is no more of the flesh of the apple left, just hardness and a few seeds and she can hear Killian telling her that she shouldn’t eat that part, and now she just feels _awful_ for being so greedy.

A feeling she covers up by being her usual prickly self.  “Tell me, was that in a book too?  Perhaps you brushed up on the subject before we set sail.  How to instruct a princess on the proper way to eat an apple.”

Mortification blooms as soon as Killian’s face flushes.  “No.  I can, uh, tell you that one from experience.  And, uh, over-enthusiasm shall we say.”

Emma wants to apologise, but something stops her saying sorry outright.  “I think hunger has gotten the better of me.  I can’t recall ever being quite this ravenous before!” 

She hopes that brushing it off with a joke might work, and she does get a smile from Killian but for totally the wrong reason, it appears.

“I’m sure that’s not true!”  There’s a moment of silence, that isn’t really like silence because it’s awkward and thick and there’s a kind of rushing noise that signals the blood colouring Emma’s own cheeks.  She doesn’t have to reassure him that yes, it is absolutely true, because he’s figured it out on his own and she feels even more like an outsider in their tiny party of two.

To say that she can’t win at anything would be an understatement.

“Maybe I could get another,” Killian says, looking up into the tree.  The branch he initially stood on now lies on the ground and he eyes the tree, looking for another way.

Having watched him fall once already, not to mention the narrow escape of finding the apple wasn’t cursed, Emma isn’t prepared to watch him risk anything again while she stands uselessly by, wringing her hands. 

“I should climb up,” she announces. 

“I don’t…”

“I’m lighter.”  It’s a valid argument.

“But hardly dressed for it.”

“Phfft.  I may not have eaten an apple, but it’s not like I haven’t ever climbed a tree before.”  To demonstrate Emma takes off her slippers, and then reaches for the lowest branch and tries to swing herself up, bracing her feet on the trunk. 

It may be true that she’s climbed trees before, but it’s been a long time since she’s done so.  These days she gets less free time to spend daring her brothers to climb as high as she can.  Actually getting herself up is a lot harder than she thought it would be, and she gets a little stuck half-way, but she feels Killian’s hands on her back, supporting her and while she wanted to do this all herself, she’s glad he’s not going to let her fall just to prove his own point.

Once she manages to haul herself into a sitting position on the branch, which is not an easy feat given the acres of fabric she seems to be draped in, she looks around for any apples within reach.  There is one she can grab easily, and she pulls it from the branch above her head and throws it down to Killian, before reaching for another that’s a little more of a stretch.

It doesn’t come away easily, either, and she has to tug a little harder which makes her position more precarious.  But, eventually, she pulls it loose, and, unsure what else to do, tucks it into the front of her dress.

A glance down tells her that Killian has all but finished the apple she’d given him and Emma thinks that perhaps one more apple would be a good idea.  The problem is finding one she can reach.  She carefully brings her feet up until she can balance in a crouch on the branch and then even more carefully she stands up, keeping her head low to avoid her hair tangling in the leaves and twigs.

There’s an apple she thinks she can reach, large and glossy and ever so tempting and she’s glad now that they’ve established the apples aren’t cursed.  Emma reaches out tentatively and finds she can’t get anywhere near it, so adjusts her footing, shuffling further down the branch.

“Don’t fall,” Killian says, plaintively.

“Don’t worry.”  Emma figures out that if she leans forward and balances her stomach on the branch beside her, she can stretch out and…finally!...pull the apple free.  Only now she’s lost her footing on the original branch and is balanced, high above Killian’s head, with nowhere to actually put her feet and an apple lodged in one hand

She shimmies sideways along the branch using her elbows to manoeuvre and hoping that her feet will come into contact with something again.  They don’t and she mutters “Bollocks!” to herself, trying to not let on that she’s in difficulty.  She dangles from the branch for a moment and then realises there’s only so long she can stay where she is.

She puts the apple in her mouth to leave her hands free and then, as carefully as she can, Emma pushes off and lowers her legs further into the void below.  She hears Killian say “What are you…?”  Followed by “Bloody hell.”

Without looking below, because that might just make the whole thing a little scarier, Emma prepares to drop to the ground, only it seems that Killian was going to attempt to catch her because instead of landing on hard earth she lands on something that gives way and makes a sort of ‘oof’ noise as they tumble onto the ground.

She thinks her head will surely hit the ground in the fall, and a surprised noise escapes her lips as the apple she had clenched between her teeth goes flying, but an arm reaches behind her back and stops her motion.  When she has time to gather her thoughts and look around, Emma realises that she is all but sitting on Killian’s lap which is, she believes, a less than ideal position to be in.

It would have been nice to accomplish one thing on her own.

She straightens up and says, with as much dignity as she can muster, “Well, this makes up for last night, I suppose.”

“Can I safely assume that now you will stop reminding me of my nocturnal transgressions?"

Emma can't think of a good response to that.  He's implied she's being churlish about the unusual circumstances of the previous night and it is a somewhat valid observation, she concedes.

But everything is unusual at present; Emma's eaten an apple for the first time in her life and the day has been confusing from the start right up until the point she ended up sitting on top of Killian under an apple tree, like they’re people in one of the sickly-sweet love songs the maids like to sing as they work.

Attempting to take a leaf out of her mother's book and focus on the positive, she crawls off Killian in a manoeuvre that is less than elegant and pulls out the apple that has been lodged in the top of her corset with a triumphant flourish. "At least we have more apples now."

Killian gives her an odd look and coughs into his hand.  “You can have this one, if you like,” Emma offers, hoping to make up for her earlier brusqueness, but he shakes his head in refusal.

“No, no.  Look, there are plenty to choose from now.”  He gestures to a few apples on the ground, shaken loose by Emma as she disembarked from the tree.  Grabbing the closest one, Killian takes a large bite and Emma does the same with the one still in her own hand.

There’s silence for a while, both of them occupied by their own thoughts.  Emma is enjoying her second apple ever immensely, the difficulty in obtaining it in the first place completely forgotten, but she manages to be somewhat distracted all the same.  She’s eaten a lot of food with a lot of people in her lifetime; there’s nothing like planning a large gathering to make her mother happy.  But she’s never wanted to watch someone eat quite as closely as she’s watching Killian.

It’s an interesting development, Emma thinks, trying to remain objective about the situation.  She likes his mouth, she thinks, although she can’t really think what makes it different from other mouths.  The idea that she likes it simply because it belongs to Killian seems a little ridiculous, and she’s almost happy when, having finished his apple and tossed the core aside, Killian asks a question.

“Why apples?”

“Why…you know about my mother, don’t you?”

“Everyone knows that story.  But why are only apples cursed?  You were happy when you thought this was a plum tree.”

It’s a good question, and one Emma doesn’t have an immediate answer to.  “Tradition.”

“But surely any tradition starts for a reason?”

She’s on the verge of making something up just so she doesn’t feel at a loss.  It’s a tactic that has worked numerous times with her brothers and she’s almost certain that her little brother Davy still believes that thunder is caused by rock trolls having a celebration in far-off lands.

But she decides to come clean in this instance.  “I don’t know.”  And then she has an idea.  “But maybe, when I get back to the castle, I could see if there’s a book on it…and send it to you.”

She hopes Killian sees the joke in what she’s saying and that he’s not meant to be the butt of it this time.  And he does, if his smile is anything to go by. 

“I’d like that.”

“Good.”

They eat another of the fallen apples each, and gather up a few more in a makeshift bundle tied in the cravat Emma realises Killian has stopped wearing at some point that morning. 

Now that she’s eaten Emma almost doesn’t mind setting off again, although trying to cram the nearly-destroyed slippers back on her feet seems a hopeless task and if wasn’t for the worry about what might lurk in the grass she probably wouldn’t bother with any footwear.

The sun is high now, the morning having almost passed and, after they’ve walked for a while in silence, it suddenly occurs to Emma that they won’t be making it home today.  She doesn’t know at all when they’re even going to be close, and the feeling of dread that sneaks up on her is oppressive. 

She doesn’t want to panic, but it’s hard not to.  The promise of another night in the open scares her more than anything right now and she wants to _fix_ it and fix it now. 

“Do you think we’ll find any people soon?” she asks Killian, but he shrugs.

“I don’t know.  And if we do, I don’t know if they’ll be people we want to see.  Or to see us, at any rate.”

She intensely dislikes his practicality about then.  Emma had said that she’s the worst princess to be stranded with, but perhaps there might be a better companion than Lieutenant Jones.  What she really wants are some nice platitudes; the odd empty word of comfort murmured in a way that gives her hope when she most needs it.

She quite frankly doesn’t need to be reminded that they are wandering through an enemy kingdom with only their wits and some apples to protect them.

If he notices that the silence they fall back into is deliberate on Emma’s part, a sign of how very annoyed she is with him and his attitude at that moment, then he doesn’t say anything.

Most likely he doesn’t even notice, because that would sum him up completely.

After another half an hour or so Emma finally sees something that isn’t more grass.  There’s what looks like smoke, pluming up from just beyond a thicket of trees on the edge of the horizon.

She assumes, from the way he stops next to her, Killian has noticed it too and Emma tries not be annoyed that she doesn’t get to claim the discovery as her own.

“I thought we’d have to come across someone sometime,” she says.

“Yes…” Killian replies slowly, watching the smoke rise with a worried expression on his face.  She fears this will be like the tree again and he will try to dissuade her from approaching the dwelling and she isn’t having a bar of that.

Before he can finish whatever thought he had formulating, she sets off at a faster pace than she’d been able to manage for a while now, ignoring the pain in her feet and with her eyes on her target.

As she breaks into a run, Emma can hear him behind her, the footsteps as he belatedly realises what she is doing and where she is going, the imploring “Emma!”, the addition of “We don’t have any idea…”

Emma wasn’t really listening anyway, so she thinks it hardly matters if she missed his last few words.  The intention is clear and she’s more interested in doing something about their current situation rather than standing around discussing the merits of her approach.

She reaches the cottage just ahead of Killian and knocks decisively on the door, hoping that the hammering of her heart is only due to the fact she’s been running and not a belated sense of dread about what she might find on the other side of the door.

Killian catches up to her as she’s standing there.  “See?” she says, over her shoulder.  “It’s just a cottage.”

“Yes…but…does that door seem awfully large to you?”

“What?  No.”  She looks at the door again.  It’s just a door.  She’s never spent much time studying them before. 

Killian gives her an odd look as she knocks again, harder this time.  The door gives a little under her hand and she pushes it open further.  “Hello?”

“It’s not out of proportion to the cottage, but the whole thing seems big.  The ceiling must be…” Emma ignores Killian’s attempted discussion of the design of the cottage and leans inside the now open door.  She isn’t about to admit that she can’t add to the discussion as she’s never paid much attention the few times she’d actually set foot inside a cottage.  And anyway, most of the ones she’d seen had been built for dwarves.  Of course they were going to be smaller than this.

“Anyone home?”  Emma steps further inside and everything seems normal, as far as she can tell.  She’s not asking Killian’s opinion on the matter, but he gives it anyway.

“Everything’s bigger…”

“Perhaps they’re just important people?  I mean you should see the size of the chairs in the throne room.”

“I don’t think important people live in a cottage.”  Killian follows her inside and looks around as well, peering into something left in a cooking pot hung over the embers of the fire.  “And eat porridge.”

Emma goes to look as well.  “Is that what it is?”

Killian gives her the weird look again, the one that tells her that she’s clearly missing some basic human skills.

“Well.  That’s nice,” she says, with a shrug.  It doesn’t seem that nice, if she’s being honest, although if someone offered her some she might try it.  Out of politeness.

Only there’s no one around to offer her anything.  Killian is staring at a chair as though it’s some kind of puzzle when, clearly, it’s just a chair.

“I think we should leave,” he says, backing away from the chair and bumping into another, larger one.  “I don’t think the people who live here will be pleased to find us in their home when they return.”

“Nonsense.  We’ll just explain that we are…weary travellers in need of a place to rest.  It will be fine.”  Emma’s seen her parents charm random strangers; she’s certain it can’t be that difficult.  More to the point she can think of nothing worse than heading back outside again to just walk and walk with no end in sight.  The least they could do is offer them a chair to sit in for a while, and no one would begrudge that, would they?

Killian looks dubious, but then goes back to eyeing the table critically.

 “I’m going to check the other room,” she announces, and, for once, Killian doesn’t try to warn her off which is nice but makes it obvious just how damned _interesting_ he’s finding the furniture in the place. 

Through the curtain that acts as some kind of door, Emma finds a room with three beds in it, all lined up.  “It’s just some beds,” she calls back.

“Are they big?” Killian asks.

“No.”  They’re not, she decides looking at them critically.  No bigger than she’s used to, anyway.  When she shared a bed with Eva there was enough room for them to arrange several pets and dolls and extra pillows between them and still not be anywhere near the edge.

She’s starting to think that if Killian finds this cottage so strange then _she’s_ not the only one who’s led a very sheltered life.  And, if she remembers the boat they were on correctly, everything inside it was very small.  Like it had been made for dwarves.  She’d marvelled at the bed in Captain Jones’ cabin when they’d been sitting there during the storm, wondering how on earth a grown man managed to sleep in such a space.

So if anyone had no eye for proportions, it was probably Killian.

Just to prove her point, Emma lies down on the closest bed and stretches her arms and legs right out.  She can definitely touch both sides comfortably so it’s just a normal bed.  Just a nice normal bed that is so much more comfortable than cold, damp rocks and one bony knee and she thinks it wouldn’t hurt to close her eyes for a few moments before they set off again to see if there’s another cottage close by.

It will only be a short rest.

And she’s not sure how long her eyes were closed, but the first thing she notices is someone stroking her hair.  At first she imagines it’s her mother and she sinks further down into the bed, feeling warm and secure.  Then it occurs to her that it might be Killian; the hand feels unusually large and there’s a weird rumbling sound going on and maybe he’s trying to warn her about whatever is making the noise.

Aggrieved at being dragged from her rest she opens her eyes and finds herself confronted with a large brown snout and a pair of deep black eyes.  Blinking a couple of times, she makes out the source of the rumbling is the bear in front of her and that it’s actually a low growl.

Terrified and with her mind urging her to flee, Emma freezes on the bed, staring back at the bear who’s paw continues to stroke her hair and back.  The growling becomes a little louder and, then, she hears quite loud, angry growls coming from the other room, followed by a sort of smashing noise, and she draws back in fear.

There are more bears in that room and Killian’s probably been eaten and she’ll be next.

But she growls of the bear in front of her become a little softer and the strangest thing happens; it stops sounding like just an animal noise.  The growl is still there, but buried within it, Emma can hear what sounds like actual words, repeated over and over.

_There, there, Goldilocks.  There, there._

**Thanks for reading!**


	6. Chapter 6

Killian doesn’t remember being asleep, or even closing his eyes, but he must have at some point in that space between Emma calling out that the beds in the other room were normal and being startled by the enormous paw that pokes him in the chest.  He can remember sitting in the chair that was really too big for a normal human and staring at the embers in the fire and then, well, there is a bear right in front of him.

In a panic, Killian tries to get up and flee, but the bear pushes him back into the chair, hard.  So hard in fact that he lands awkwardly and the arm of the chair gives way, crashing to the floor with him following it.  This sets off a series of growls from the other, slightly smaller bear, who stands behind the one who’d pushed him. 

Wondering if they’re going to fight over which one gets to eat him, Killian attempts to scramble under the table, which probably won’t protect him for long, but might give him a chance to make it to the door.

But that would only save himself and, as far as he can tell, Emma is still in the other room and his way to that is blocked by two bears who he definitely doesn’t want to have to face, outnumbered and without any weapon.

He risks looking out from under the table, but the bears are still occupied with the demise of the chair, the bigger one holding the broken arm and waving it around as though he’s trying to explain something which is ridiculous because bears aren’t usually concerned with furniture.

Killian wishes that Emma had listened to him earlier because he knew something was wrong with the cottage, and she’d blithely dismissed him and now look where they were.  He’d gone in here against his better judgement, perhaps because the whole apple tree had worked out in the end, or perhaps because she’d just been so damn happy to find some semblance of a settlement that he’d hoped this would work out in her favour as well.

It hadn’t.

He needs a way to get past the snarling bears and rescue Emma, at least, that’s the first priority.  Finding out if they can outrun such massive beasts will be the next one.

Casting around he notices that the chair, the one with the broken arm, is pushed up against the table he’s sheltering under and that the arm falling off has also loosened the nails holding the leg.  Hoping he won’t be noticed Killian reaches out and, as carefully as he can, tries to pull the leg loose.  It gives way but it becomes clear he’s miscalculated the effect that will have when the whole chair then crashes over, catching the attention of the two bears.  The larger one roars in indignation as Killian takes a deep breath and, brandishing his makeshift weapon, attempts to emerge from under the table threateningly, although he feels the fact is somewhat diminished by the fact he’s crouching.

Also, the bear swipes the chair leg from his hand with a great roar of indignation and Killian is left defenceless and considers taking cover under the table once more when behind the bear currently threatening him he sees a familiar head appear.

“What are you doing?” Emma asks, trying to peer past the enormous bear between them and it’s a ridiculous thing to ask when it’s plainly obvious that he’s trying to fight off a bear so they can escape.  Honestly, it was one thing when she was confused about apples, another when she was so determined to enter this cottage despite all the warning signs but this, well this takes the cake.

If she’s really that dim-witted then there’s no hope for them making it home, or even to nightfall.  They’ll be eaten by bears before he even has a chance to remind her that they shouldn’t have come in here.

And Killian doesn’t like to think of himself as a petty person, but he _really_ hopes that he gets a chance to say something to that effect in the near future.  He feels he’s earned that, if nothing else.

The bear has stopped paying any attention to Killian, thankfully, and has turned around, the chair leg still clutched in its paw, to look at where Emma is standing.  It’s then that Killian notices that there’s a third bear, because, why wouldn’t there bloody be a _third_ bear, standing behind Emma.

And stroking her hair.

The bear that likes to play with its food, the smallest of the three, growls at the largest one, and it replies, turning back to Killian and pointing at him with the chair leg.

Bloody buggering bollocks.

Killian has no intention of being anyone’s dinner and he tries to signal to Emma that she should make a run for the door, but she seems distracted by whatever the bears are growling about, looking from one to the other.  And then she finally looks back at him.  “Killian, did you break their chair?”

“I…no… _what_?”  Emma hadn’t been concerned with the outsized furniture earlier and now all she cares about is the broken chair.  It leaves Killian flummoxed and feeling at a complete disadvantage because he’d been trying to save her, and now she was just throwing around accusations of vandalism.

“I didn’t break it,” he finally manages to get out.  “I was thrown back into it and it just gave way underneath me.”

The second largest bear, the one who is lighter in colour than the rest, then growls a little and lifts a paw leaving Killian afraid that it might swipe him to the ground, but it seems more intent on waving it in the direction of the largest bear.

Maybe if they decide to fight over him, he might be able to get past them?

“Apparently he was supposed to fix the chair last week, and that’s caused a lot of the ruckus, although neither of them are happy that you made it worse,” Emma says, as though this is a perfectly normal turn of events.

“What? Who did what?”  And then it dawns on him.  “You can _understand_ them?”

Emma’s face suddenly changes expression from mild amusement to something approaching astonishment.  “You _can’t_?”

“No!  They’re bears.  They’re just growling.”  It’s like apples and porridge all over again.  “I don’t know what any of it means, but I just don’t want to get eaten!”

At this all noise stops and everyone else in the room, the three bears and Emma all look at Killian and he feels remarkably self-conscious.  There’s some conferring and then Emma says.  “They don’t want to eat you, people are chewy.  They just don’t want their house…what’s the word?  Infested.”

Killian bristles at that because it wasn’t his choice to come in here at all.  “Are you absolutely certain?” he retorts.  “That one keeps touching you…it’s like watching a cat with a mouse.”

Emma shakes her head.  “No, Theodora…that’s her name.  She, uh…well…she was just happy I’m here because…”  She stops talking and looks a little bit embarrassed and Killian wonders what could be worse than being someone’s dinner.  “She always wanted a pet.”

At those words the bear called Theodora looks positively gleeful, and the large bear, the one Killian is still convinced might just eat him, or at least tear his arm off if given a chance, growls something and shakes its head emphatically.

“Oh well,” Emma says, with regret that even Killian can see is feigned.  “I didn’t think it would work out.  You don’t really have the space and I’d be terribly lonely away from my family…” She doesn’t finish because Theodora has lifted her arm and is pointing at Killian and looking at the other larger bears with an expression that could only be termed pleading.

The second-largest bear shakes its head, and throws its paws up in the air in despair, while growling something which clearly Emma can understand because she wrinkles her nose up and says “Oh, no.  That definitely wouldn’t happen.”

“What?”  Killian feels that whatever it is, it concerns him so he’d like to know.  Even if he still is a little dubious about Emma’s skills in translation.

“Well, Theodora asked if she could keep you as well, but her mother said absolutely not.  She’s not having a pair of humans because then the place will be over-run with small humans getting underfoot and eating them out of house and home.”

Killian can’t decide what he’s more offended by, the notion that he could be kept as a pet, or Emma’s clear outrage at the idea of…no, better to stick with the whole pet situation for the moment.

“We’re not pets,” he tries, but that doesn’t seem to be much of a consideration.  Emma is conferring with her captor, saying “No, I told you, it’s Emma, you should use that,” and the largest bear…presumably the male is looking at the chair-leg balefully and throwing a few accusatory glances in Killian’s direction. 

It’s making him quite uncomfortable. 

“They still seem annoyed about the chair,” he tells Emma, who looks over at him. 

“Yes.  Perhaps it would be better if you waited outside.”

“But, uh.  What will you do?”

“Look,” Emma replies.  “I’ll be fine.  I think I know what to do.”  She sounds remarkably confident, but her confidence is kind of hit or miss.  She’s alright at tree climbing, less so at picking which cottages to enter and the jury is still out on the whole understanding bears but not birds.

But, he reasons, if he makes it out to safety then enacting a rescue might be easier if he’s not jammed up against a table by the bulk of a bear twice his size.  They don’t seem to show much inclination to eat Emma, so he’ll take his escape where he can.

“Fine.”  He retrieves his cravat with the apples tied in it from the table and leaves the cottage with as much dignity as he can muster, ignoring the glances of the bears as he walks past them.

Only once outside, he starts to question whether Emma’s plan was such a good idea.  More to the point, has he merely shown his own cowardice in leaving as he did?

Would Liam have left a princess in a cottage with three bears?  Would he had even gone in the cottage in the first place, or would the princess have actually listened to Liam?

The last thought is particularly galling; Killian is well-aware that he is still not up to his brother’s standard when it comes to managing a crew, but he hadn’t expected his skills in managing a princess…girl…person to be tested quite so thoroughly when he has no experience in the matter.

And, even worse, no way to pull rank on her.

He sits on the ground and watches the sky, trying to judge the passing of time.  He won’t sit here for more than half an hour, he thinks, before he goes back and attempts a rescue.  That should be enough time for Emma to reason with the bears.

Although whether or not you can, actually, reason with bears is something Killian has no idea about. 

After a time, and after he’s eaten one apple and judged that the shadows have changed enough that a reasonable amount of time has passed, he’s contemplating just how, exactly, he might get back inside and rescue Emma, and, more importantly, how he’ll describe his rescue attempts to Liam when they are reunited, when she suddenly steps outside the door of the cottage, carrying a basket and smiling broadly.

The three bears stand behind her and Emma addresses each one in turn.  Killian can’t hear what she says, but he definitely notices that the largest one spots him and glowers at him over Emma’s shoulder.  Despite the fact it looks as though Emma is being set free, it still makes him uncomfortable.

How fast do bears run, anyhow?

Emma says goodbye to the smallest bear last, and it wraps her in its arms in a way that makes Killian worry for her safety.  She is released though, and calls back over her shoulder “Bye, Teddy!  I’ll see you again soon!” and then she walks over to him, swinging the basket and still looking as pleased as anything.

It makes Killian feel…well, certainly not pleased about anything.  Mostly he wonders if she truly appreciates the fact he was, in his mind at least, about to stage a dashing rescue in order to free her from her captors. 

“I did it!” she says, gaily, when she reaches him.  “We can leave and, look, I have extra supplies as well. Honey cake?”

“Um…”  Killian would like to say something else, perhaps have some more discussion about exactly how he was going to rescue Emma, because he was, at least, half-way to a plan when she appeared, but hunger trumps most thoughts at the moment.  “Yes, please.”

“Here.”  Emma pulls a cake out of the basket and hands it to him, before biting into one herself as they start walking away from the bears’ cottage.

“They’re quite good,” Killian says, when his cake is finished and he feels like he should make some response.

“Yes.  They offered me some of the porridge too, but I declined because it wasn’t really fair to take all their food.”  Emma wrinkles her nose and Killian thinks that it’s unlikely that’s the true cause of her refusal.  It’s plainly obvious that it’s not only apples she’s never eaten, and it hits him, suddenly, what a strange life she’s led; familiar with chimera but not with apples and porridge, she’s like something exotic just dropped into this world.

He wonders if now is the time to say something consoling, to recognise that it’s been a trying day for her, but she doesn’t pause for long enough to allow him to speak at all.  “They were very generous,” Emma continues.  “Obviously they have no clothes that would fit me…or clothes, really.  But Teddy…she likes that better than Theodora, she gave me this baby blanket for when it gets cold and her mother gave me some clean rags, which is a relief.”  She points to the fabric lining the base of the basket.

“Of course she was horrified that it happens to me every month,” Emma continues.  “And mostly glad, once again, that she’d said no to keeping the pair of us.”

Emma’s words remind Killian of the look she’d had on her face when that was proposed by Emma’s erstwhile owner and, while he had no desire to be a bear’s pet, he wished that Emma didn’t make it quite so obvious that her over-riding objection to the scenario had more to do with being stuck with Killian as a…well, as a mate, he supposes.

He doesn’t expect her to like the idea, but he still wishes she wasn’t quite so appalled by it.

In an effort to move the conversation in another direction he asks “So, how did you get away anyway?  That bear seemed quite intent on keeping you.”

Emma looks pleased to have been asked, and he’s glad he managed to do something to her satisfaction.  “Well, it took quite a bit of negotiation,” she says, conspiratorially and Killian tries, and fails, to imagine Emma negotiating anything.

“But…what did you offer them?”

“Offer?” Emma sounds as though he’s brought up the most ridiculous idea in the realm.

“Yes…negotiation.  It implies some kind of back and forth, offer and acceptance.  Not just walking out of there with half the contents of their larder.”  Killian knows he sounds a little peevish because Emma’s face gets the same look that Liam’s does whenever Killian tries to remind him of some point of protocol.  He thinks that Emma will adopt the same tactic his brother does; pull rank and brush him off, but instead she looks a little sheepish, as though she’s been caught out at something.

“I know what negotiation means!  I…just…well, she might be a bear but she’s still a little girl,” Emma begins.  “And, you know, there’s no shortage of them in my family.  So I just thought ‘what would my father do in this situation’?  And I used his tactics.”

“Which are?”

Emma sighs and rolls her eyes and makes it plain that she hadn’t really requested any follow-up questions, thank you very much, but Killian stands his ground and refuses to give up.  “What did you offer her?”

“I merely told her that I’d get her a pony.”

“A _what_?”

“A pony!  Oh, for heaven’s sake, the poor thing just wants something to love.  So I’ll send her a pony when I get home.  Matter sorted.”

“And that’s your father’s strategy?”

“Yes.”

“For dealing with…little girls?”

Emma’s less emphatic in her answer this time.  “Well, I suppose.”

“How many ponies do you have?”

Clearly not the question she was expecting, Emma gapes somewhat, and then collects herself.  “Three.  But Eva has more!  At least five now, plus the bunny, three cats and two dogs and she is always asking for more.  Some people are just greedy.”

“It would seem so.”

“Also, she’s a little jealous, I think,” Emma seems to be warming to the subject of her younger’s sister’s foibles and Killian is happy to let her continue, even though he hopes that Liam never waxes quite so lyrical about his own short-comings.  “Because as the eldest I get the flock.”

“The what?”

“The flock.  Of sheep.  I have my own flock.”

“That is…”  Killian shakes his head because he isn’t entirely certain what on earth it is.  “You’re like that woman, Bo Peep…”

“I’m nothing like that horrid person!” Emma snaps, eyes blazing and Killian almost stumbles at the vehemence in her words.  He’d clearly said the wrong thing.  Again.

“Well things are certainly very different in the castle,” he tries, hoping that won’t offend his companion.  “I’ve never encountered anyone before who was blessed with the…the…the bounty of an entire flock of sheep.”

He’s quite pleased with that phrasing, and less so when Emma burst into laughter.  “Oh, they’re not for eating!” she says.  “They’re Merinos, they’re just good for their wool.  It’s the best there is.”

She reaches out suddenly and grabs him.  “Look, you’re…this, it’s merino.  That’s why you dried so much faster than I did.”  Killian looks down to see where Emma is grasping his waist to demonstrate the qualities of the fabric his waistcoat is constructed from.

At least, that’s what he assumes her intention is.  His own mind is fixated on the touch of her hands and although he knows, quite clearly given the events in the cottage, that she harbours no great desire for him at all the same cannot be said for Killian.

He finds the Princess Emma, despite her faults, quite entrancing and being touched so intimately by her is more than a little overwhelming.  He tries to remain as still as possible, not certain whether that’s for her benefit or his.

Whichever of them startles first will surely break the spell.

In the end it is Emma who drops her hands, and looks a little surprised at herself.  “Well, you know what I mean.  I’m just glad that we don’t live in one of those kingdoms where they’ve banned spinning wheels.  It’s a terrible burden on the economy to have to import all the finished cloth.”

“Yes.  Quite.”  Killian feels like he’s somehow stumbled into one of those interminable parties that the admiralty like to throw for officers, the ones where everyone makes polite conversation about the weather and the price of wool and hardly anyone bothers to speak to him at all.  Mostly he stands silently beside Liam, wishing the night were over.

As much as he may feel a little under-appreciated by Emma at times, he does not wish the rest of the day to feel quite so uncomfortable.  “So…a pony, you say?  For the bear-girl?”

“Exactly.  One pony.  It shouldn’t be hard to find one…as long as I can get the right one of course.  She has a preference for a particular sort.”

“I wouldn’t have thought that bears would be particularly concerned with horse breeds.”

Emma shakes her head.  “Not the breed, just the, uh, colour.  She wants it to be a particular colour…well, the mane and tail need to be.  I might have to source it from Agrabah…”

“What’s the colour got to do with it?”

“Oh.  So it fits the name she’s already picked out.”

“Is that the normal way of naming ponies?”  Killian is genuinely curious having never had a pony, or any other pet for that matter.  You couldn’t really count the various ships’ cats he’d come into contact with, who were more likely to steal your rations from out of your hand than let you pet them.

“Well, sometimes.  Teddy was quite adamant that she liked _that_ particular name, so…”

Emma trails off into her own thoughts, possibly about how to find the right kind of pony to give to a bear who is really just a little girl and something occurs to Killian.

“It’s the name she wanted to call you, isn’t it?”

“What?  No.  No, I’m Emma and I said that to her…”

“Yes, I remember, but she called you something else first.  What was that?”

Emma purses her lips and, for a moment, Killian thinks she won’t tell him and there won’t be much he can do about it because it’s not like he can speak bear, and he wouldn’t be going back to ask anyway.  Under no circumstances is he ever setting foot in that cottage again.

But in the end she mutters something, quickly and quietly so he can’t make it out. 

“I beg your pardon, Emma?”

“I said…Goldilocks.  There.  Laugh if you must.”  She sniffs haughtily and, although Killian would very much like to laugh at the preposterous name, he doesn’t because it would be churlish.

He may chuckle a little, though.  “It suits you.”

“It’s not for _me_.  It’s for the horse.”

“Of course it is.  Because Goldilocks is clearly a horse name, not a people name.  What are your ponies called, by the way?”

“Oh.  Well.  Clover, Sorrel and, uh, Strawberry.”

“And those are, clearly, much better names than Goldilocks.”

“I was very young when I named her!  And it’s my favourite fruit and now you’re just making fun of me.”

“No, no.  I’d never dream of doing anything of the sort. Goldilocks.”  The look of outrage on Emma’s face makes it hard to contain his laughter and he gives in to it, a strange sort of joy bubbling up borne from the tension of the day’s events.  He had really thought that he might never leave the cottage in one piece, let alone walk away with the girl who, surely even she had to admit, really did suit the name Goldilocks.

“When I return home,” she announces, loudly.  “I am getting a braying donkey and naming it Killian!  Honestly, you wouldn’t even call me Emma earlier and now…now…it’s not funny!”

Emma’s outrage only adds to Killian’s enjoyment of the ridiculous scenario and he is doubled over, trying to catch his breath when he hears Emma sniggering next to him. “It’s not funny!” she repeats, but she’s obviously coming around to his way of thinking.

“Well, maybe it’s a little silly,” she concedes.  “But it’s not like I had any say in it.”

“No.  No, if you’d been picking your own name you might have been…been…gooseberry or something just as appalling…”

And that’s when he realises that he should have been paying more attention as he feels the basket connect with his shoulder.  “Did you hit me?” he asks, glancing sideways at Emma.

“Yes.  Because you deserved it.  After all, who got us away from the bears, and now, now, you’re just making fun of my poor horse!”

He does feel a little chastened and, although he still feels the whole naming situation is ridiculous, he wonders if Emma isn’t perhaps deserving of some credit.  “It was lucky,” he concedes.  “And you didn’t know?  That you could understand them?”

“No.  Not at all.  But then there aren’t any bears in the Enchanted Forest any longer, so I never had the chance to find out.  I suppose it’s because of Narnia, you know.  And how people and animals could understand each other there.”

“Narnia?  But that’s just…made up.”  He’s heard of the mythical kingdom in the North, but that is all it is.

“Mmm, but supposedly the first people in Arendelle came from there, and my great-grandmother, she was from Arendelle, soooo….maybe?”

“Maybe,” Killian concedes, as he straightens up and begins walking again.  He notices that Emma’s steps are slower now, and she seems to be favouring one foot.  Her shoes have shredded over the course of the day and she’s practically walking in bare feet, although she’s yet to complain about it.

“At least I shall have a story to tell everyone, when I get back,” she says, looking over her shoulder at Killian. 

“The story of how Goldilocks defeated the three bears?”

“I’m leaving out the Goldilocks part,” she mutters.  “And if you mention it I’ll just tell everyone all you did was destroy the furniture.”

“You did get us away safely, though,” he concedes.  “And that for that, I suppose, I am grateful.”

“Good.  And it will be nice to have something to share…I mean, I’ve been listening to my parents’ stories all my life.  The time they defeated the trolls, the time they fought the medusa…”

“The story with the rock?”

“Yes, yes.  The rock as well.  It’ll be nice to finally have something of my own to share.”

Killian is tempted to bring up Goldilocks again, but he catches the wistful look in Emma’s eyes and realises that she wants to be the hero of this particular story, not just a girl who accidentally discovered she could understand bears and therefore managed to escape being a pet called Goldilocks.  It just wouldn’t seem…fair to take that away from her.

And Liam may on occasion tease him for being a stickler for good form, but, in this instance, he doesn’t think his brother will disagree with him.  “Well, you will definitely be the hero of the hour when we return,” he says, and he hopes that she doesn’t press him for when that might be.

He doesn’t know, and he realises that her rash entry into the cottage earlier was prompted by a desire to find some help.  Her dress is in tatters, her shoes barely could be called such.  They have, for now, sated their hunger but the few apples and honey cakes they have left will not last long and one bear’s blanket will not keep the cold out at night.

Afternoon marches on, and so do they, through fields and past clumps of trees, occasionally seeing a few tracks made by a cart but no sign of an obvious road and then, when Killian has almost resigned himself to a night in the open, another cottage appears on the horizon.

This time, Emma does not run towards it, she stops beside him and watches, silently.  She may have been the one to negotiate with the bears, but that doesn’t mean she is anxious to test her skills again.

“What do you think?” she asks, and, although Killian had been hoping for some acknowledgement of his, admittedly not particularly well thought-out, rescue attempt from the bears earlier, somehow this more than makes up for it.

She’s spent the morning running after birds and plums that were really apples and into strange and foreboding cottages and, really, this was a much nicer change of pace.

Killian’s more than happy to give up the chance to be a hero right at this moment, if it means he doesn’t have to worry about what Emma might do next.  “I say we take a chance and see if they’re friendly,” he suggests.

“And not bears,” Emma adds.  “Although at least I can talk to those.  Do you think there are other creatures I can understand?  Wolves, perhaps? I hope there are wolves in this one and then I can try.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but catches the smile on Emma’s face and stays silent.  “Your face,” she says.  “Serves you right after calling me Goldilocks.”

“Humph.”  Killian doesn’t really have an answer to that.

“And anyway, I’d know if I could talk to wolves because of Aunt Ruby.  So we can cross those off the list.”

“That’s, uh, good to know.”

“Yes.  So, shall we see if there’s anyone home here, who isn’t a wolf?”

“Yes.  Let’s.”  He holds his arm out and, to his surprise, Emma takes it, hooking them together at the elbows.  She gives him a small smile, and then they start off again, towards the gate that leads into the little yard around the cottage.

“Do you think we’ll be alright?” she whispers, as they approach.

“I do,” Killian replies, and, for the first time that day, he feels it isn’t a lie.

“Why?”

“Because I’ve yet to see you fail.”  With that her look of triumph returns and the other Emma is back, the one who vanquished bears and lived to tell the tale.

She’d been right, earlier, when she said she was not the princess people were expecting to meet, but yet, she was the only princess he’d ever spoken to.  And he didn’t think he’d want to change her at all.

And certainly not just so he could be the hero in her story.

**Thanks for reading!**


	7. Chapter 7

Emma’s feeling of invincibility lasts as long as it takes them to actually come face to face with the occupant of the small cottage.  Buoyed up by the success of her negotiations with Teddy the bear and her family, Emma is feeling quite prepared to tackle whatever lays inside this dwelling.

Right up until the woman who’s answered the door to them asks what it is they want.  Now she finds that her tongue, so useful in charming bears, fails her utterly because she wants to list everything she longs for; food, clothing, a comfortable bed, and most importantly, a safe passage home to her family.  But she is terrified that the woman will merely close the door on them and they will have to face the night alone.

Instead she opens her mouth but finds that the words don’t come out, they’re so jumbled in her head that she can’t pick through to figure out how to start.  Instead she turns to Killian and watches as he tries to articulate the problem.

“We are…that is to say, we had a small mishap and are in need of some assistance.”

“Mishap?” the woman asks, suspiciously, her eyes flicking from Killian to Emma.

“Um…”  Killian seems stumped, so Emma jumps in.

“There was a boat and we fell off it.”

The woman looks even more suspicious.  “Where, exactly?  There ain’t a port near here.”

“Uh, we’ve been walking, for a while,” Killian said.  “And we just need…some help.”

Emma thinks that he should really have been more specific, in her experience people aren’t mind-readers and if you want something, then you need to be clear on what it is, exactly.  But she’s worried that he’ll think she’s falling back into some kind of wayward imperiousness again because she has no idea how to ask for help rather than command it, so she stays silent.

“Who exactly are you?” the woman asks, still deeply suspicious. 

“Killian Jones.”  He extends his hand out rather formally and the woman declines to take it, which leaves him looking flustered.  “And this is, uh…” faltering, he turns to Emma.

“Emma,” she says, at the same time as Killian finally finishes with “My sister.”  There is silence, while they both stare at each other, and Emma can’t figure out why Killian said such a ridiculous thing and while he is now frowning at her when he clearly needed help.

She sighs, loudly, and turns back to the, still very puzzled, woman.  “We just need a place to rest, and, also, perhaps some clothes that haven’t been in the sea.  Maybe some food?”   Emma gives what she hopes is a winning smile, and expects that the woman will reciprocate, at the very least.

In fact, the woman looks like she might just shut the door in their faces. 

“I mean…if you are able to help us at all,” Killian adds, frowning again at Emma who definitely doesn’t think she deserves to be frowned at.  She was only trying to get to the point rather than dancing around it.

“I don’t want any trouble,” the woman says, slowly.

“We’re really no trouble at all, and, look!”  Emma slips off the ring she’s wearing on her little finger and offers it to the woman.  “We could pay, with this.”

The woman does, at least, take the ring when it’s proffered, although it occurs to Emma that perhaps it wasn’t the best idea to just hand it over to someone who could still shut the door in their faces.

But she examines the ring, twisting it in her hands, and Emma purposefully watches her and doesn’t turn her head to see what expression Killian is sporting now.

He’s most likely frowning.  Again.

“Well,” the woman says, glancing over them again like she’s weighing the matter up.  “This’ll get you something clean from the rag box, but if you want food, you’ll have to work.  And you can sleep in the barn.”

Emma realises that what the woman is offering isn’t exactly what she’s used to, but she brushes the thought away because somebody, finally, is going to look after them, and they won’t be alone anymore.

“Thank you,” she says, and it’s such a relief when the door opens fully and they’re ushered inside that she completely forgets for a moment that Killian is even with her and there’s a terribly awkward moment when she almost shuts the door behind her as Killian is still trying to get inside.

The indignant look on his face makes her feel ashamed; after all, he’s the person who’s been stuck with her up until now and there she is, trying to abandon him at the first sign of a friendly welcome from someone else.

At least their hostess has stopped looking at them suspiciously and has moved on to something that looks more like a smile.

Emma looks about expectantly, cataloguing the furniture and things in the small cottage, just in case Killian is going to start going on again about the decoration.  And, certainly Emma could admit that he had been _right_ when he’d realised that there was something…different about the last cottage they’d been in.

But he hadn’t had to be quite so mean about the Goldilocks thing afterwards.

Killian isn’t paying attention to the furnishings this time however, and he turns to the woman before asking “And what may we call you, madam?”

Emma is almost surprised that he can pull out such nice manners when he needs to, remembering the whole chair breaking incident in the bears’ house.  But she then realises that his manners are putting her own to shame and she tries to gather herself and look suitably grateful for their hostess’s generosity.

“Mistress Dab,” the woman replies. 

“Well, thank you again for your kind hospitality,” Killian replies smoothly and Emma tries hard to think of something to add, but can’t and so ends up blurting out “And you have clothes?” all the while knowing that it is downright rude to ask in such in a manner, but the prospect of changing out of her ruined dress is just so appealing that she can barely contain herself.

Killian frowns at her again, but, honestly, at this point it’s water off a duck’s back.  The woman…Mistress Dab, frowns a little and then directs them to a basket in the corner of the room.  “That’s what I’ve left at the moment.  I was going to make quilts but you can have whatever’s there, although I daresay you might have trouble.”  She nods in Killian’s direction.  “My Jack’s a lot bigger’n you.”

“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” Killian assures her and Emma waits until the woman indicates the basket again before diving in to see what she can find.

Whatever she was hoping for, the contents of this basket are certainly…less than that.  Mistress Dab hadn’t been lying when she’d said these were rags, and the collection of dull and faded clothing with frayed edges and worn patches would have been decidedly unappealing if Emma’s hadn’t been so desperate to shed her current dress.

Eventually she finds a few things that might do, and then, feeling bad that she has taken over the basket, she pulls out a coat that might be suitable for Killian.  “Here.”

He eyes it dubiously.  “I…I should be alright.  I mean, you said.  Merino.”  He points in the direction of his waistcoat and goes to put the jacket back in the basket.

“Yes, but also very, uh…white.  You look odd, which is why I don’t think she wanted to let us in.”  Emma’s voice has dropped to a whisper so that Mistress Dab, who has left them alone to tend to something in the kitchen, will not hear.

“I look odd?” Killian asks.  “You look bedraggled.  Also you were very rude.”

“At least I could talk to the poor woman.  You just stammered at her like you were a little simple.”

“I don’t need a jacket,” Killian grumbles again.

“Yes you do.  And…these.”  Emma pulls out a pair of trousers that have definitely seen better days.

“I don’t think that I really need anything,” Killian demurs.

“Well, just…put them on.”  Emma’s out of arguments, but hopes that Killian finally gets the message and so she takes the bundle of clothing she’s holding and goes to ask Mistress Dab where she can get changed, before being shown to a dank, dark bedroom that smells of something unpleasant.

Emma wants to change as quickly as possible and get out of the room, but she is hampered once again by the ties at the back of her dress and, frustrated, she seeks out Mistress Dab.

The woman mutters as she loosens Emma’s dress, and she is far rougher than Killian had been, which Emma finds a little surprising.  “Stupid way of getting dressed,” Mistress Dab says, as she gives the ties one final tug.

“Yes.  I agree.”  Emma retreats to the dark room again and quickly removes her dress and torn chemise, before replacing them with the new clothes.  It takes her a while to figure out that the corset is so heavy because it goes over the blouse, and that it should tie in the front.  That is a much more sensible idea, she has to admit, and, although nothing fits her quite properly, at least she is now covered and feeling somewhat restored in the process. 

She exits the room only to be faced with a miserable looking Killian.  The jacket is, as predicted, far too large for him and the trousers aren’t much better.  He looks like her little brother Davy every time he’s given some hand me downs from his brothers in the hope he’ll grow into them.

“That looks…alright,” Emma says, feeling guilty for having got the better end of the bargain out of their deal with Mistress Dab.

Killian pulls a face that tells her everything she needs to know about how much he disagrees with her.  Trouble is that she can’t make it right for him, and more troubling is the fact that she wants to.  So badly.

It doesn’t seem fair when she’s feeling immensely better for the chance to change her clothes that Killian should look so miserable.

And Emma has never dealt well with things not being fair.  Despite the fact that it’s Eva’s favourite catch-cry whenever she rails against the injustice of Emma being her elder, Emma does, in fact, want it to be fair for everyone.

But Killian isn’t Eva, and Emma can’t, in this instance, grudgingly agree that it would be amenable to have some company during an outing.  This can’t be easily fixed by acquiescence or a heartfelt plea to her parents or any of the usual things that make life that little bit more tolerable.

It makes Emma annoyed.  And a little snappish.  “Well, I traded my ring for those clothes so you will just have to put up with them,” she hisses, and Killian looks instantly ashamed.

Emma feels ashamed too, now, but doesn’t quite understand why Killian capitulated so quickly.  She’d worked herself up for an argument and it’s quite infuriating when he just goes quiet.

“I mean…we’ll do something about it…later on,” she says, shrugging. 

“Yes.  You’re right, of course.”  And though he sounds sincere, Emma doesn’t feel very right about anything.

Killian looks down, and seems to be trying to find a way to say something.  “Was it very…I mean, what was the history?”

“History?”

“The…the ring.  Was that something from…a relative, as well?”

The realization that Killian thinks she’s bartered something akin to the crown jewels for his replacement clothing shocks Emma and leaves her flustered.  “No, it was just made of pretty shell.  I bought it at a market, in the Maritime Kingdom.  I mean, you must buy souvenirs when you visit new places?”

“No.”  Killian looks perplexed at the idea.

“You don’t buy anything?”

“Well…just, uh,” he looks down at the ground.  “Mostly food.  The sort that hasn’t been salted and stored in a barrel.”

“Oh.”  Emma tries to figure out if she needs to add something else to that when Mistress Dab bustles back into the kitchen and looks them up and down.  “Here,” she says, handing a pair of extremely well-worn boots to Emma.  “You’ll need these if you’re going to work.”

“Work.  Yes.  Of course.”  Emma smooths down the apron tied over the skirt and tries to muster that ready for anything feeling again.  She takes the boots and in return holds out her ruined dress.  “This might be useful for your rag box.”

Mistress Dab makes a face and Emma suspects that the dress will likely end up on the fire instead, but she will hardly regret that fact.  For one thing it’s just a _dress_ , and it’s not like she doesn’t have others, and for another she has already taken off the large pearls that decorated the front just in case they need something else to barter with.

Not everyone is likely to be as impressed with seashell trinkets as Mistress Dab has been.

“My Jack won’t be back ‘til it’s right dark,” the woman says, as Emma sits down on a chair to pull on the boots.  “So you two can help out by dealing with that pile of logs out the back of the barn.  Took some trees out yesterday, and they’re just sitting there.”

“Logs?”  Emma looks inquiringly at Killian, hoping that he understands the instruction. 

“Aye,” Killian says, nodding, which Emma thinks is a good sign.  “You want firewood.”

“Bit o’ kindling, too, would be handy.  You’ll find what you need in the shed out there.”  With that she nods, and disappears back to do whatever mysterious task needed her attention.

Emma follows Killian outside testing her boots.  They’re not the most comfortable to wear, but it is nice to finally have something solid between the soles of her feet and the ground, and maybe they’ll feel better once the cuts and scratches from today’s walking have healed.

For a moment she’s lost in a fantasy about a basin of hot water and a chair and when she starts paying attention again she notices that Killian has located an axe he’s now swinging merrily.

“Are those the logs?” she asks, pointing to, what are clearly some logs, and the question is so completely obvious that Killian stops in his tracks, staring at her with a puzzled look on his face.

Well she just wanted to be included in what was happening. 

Emma shrugs and Killian carries on with what he’s doing, walking over to a large stump and placing one of the logs on it before hitting it with the axe.  It’s interesting to watch, for about a minute and then Emma finds it all incredibly boring.

She was all ready to go and do something and now there’s nothing to be done.

“What can I do?” she ventures, as Killian pauses to remove the jacket that’s too big for him.

“Uh…no it’s alright.”  He looks her up and down and goes back to chopping wood.

“There must be something I could do?”

“You can…you can…well...” Killian looks around helplessly, and then shakes his head.  “I’ll just…it won’t take me long.”

Emma huffs at that, and crosses her arms, but it goes unnoticed as Killian is completely focussed on his task and she is left standing there.  “You know you’re lucky you get to do this, it’s right up your alley isn’t it?”

“What is?”  Killian sounds hot and exasperated as he turns to face her.

“This.  Breaking things.  First the branch off the apple tree, then that poor chair.  Now someone actually wants you to break a bunch of stuff.  Must be wonderful.”

Now it’s Killian’s turn to look exasperated and annoyed.  “I’m so sorry that there aren’t any bears here who require you to translate, Goldilocks.”

“I just don’t want to stand around waiting for you,” Emma replies.

“Fine.”  Killian, drops the axe on the ground.  “You can move everything to the woodpile.”

“Woodpile?”

“There’s bound to be one around.  Just take the wheelbarrow and go look for it, add that wood to the pile, and bring the wheelbarrow back.”

“Alright.”  Emma thinks that can’t be too hard, although pushing the wheelbarrow, now nearly full of the wood Killian’s chopped sounds easier than it actually is. 

But Emma’s determined not to let the fact that she’s struggling show, and she pushes with all her might and gets the thing moving, which is an achievement, although she’s now not certain in which direction to actually push it.

She slowly makes her way around the side of the barn and finds a small rickety shelter, under which are half a dozen other, similar logs.  This must be the woodpile.  She braces her feet and pushes the wheelbarrow up to tip it and, with a great clatter, the wood lands in a pile.

Emma’s pleased that she’s accomplished the task, and wheels her, now much lighter barrow, back to Killian, who glances at her curiously.

“You find it then?” he enquires.

“Absolutely, no problem.  All ready for you to fill up again.”  She parks the wheelbarrow proudly and stands beside it, while Killian takes the opportunity to stretch, and then remove his waistcoat.

For a moment Emma wonders if he’s going to take his shirt off as well.  The image of how he looked returning from bathing that morning is burned in her brain and she would like the opportunity to see if she’s remembering it correctly.

It’s such a strange thing to be interested in, to even think about in the first place, that she wonders what’s come over her.  It’s not that she’s attracted to him, because well…she’s just not.  But it’s all so fascinating all the same, being around a boy…man…without all the pomp and circumstance that normally accompanies her life.  She wonders if other girls her age feel this way and, if they do, what they do about it?

But she has no idea on that front and Killian remains covered anyway.  He begins filling the wheelbarrow, as she’d suggested.  This time around Emma helps out by loading up the logs alongside him and it’s nice to feel useful. 

When she pushes the wheelbarrow out around the barn again she knows where she’s going, and she’s even confident enough to pause in her journey and try to tempt one of the farm cats to come closer so she can pet it.  It doesn’t accept her offer of friendship, however, and remains aloof and unobtainable.

Undeterred, Emma tips the wheelbarrow and adds the logs to the growing pile before taking it back to Killian, who is, she notes, chopping a little slower now.  “Do you want me to take over for a while?” she offers, and it’s hard not to wince at the face he pulls in response.

“I can use a sword,” Emma points out.  “And I’ve used one of the dwarf’s pickaxes.”  It was Dopey’s, and she was only allowed to swing it once before Grumpy just about had a conniption, but Killian doesn’t need to know that.

“I’m sure you’re doing fine with the wood pile,” Killian says, and she gives up arguing and decides that she will do an excellent job with the wood pile.

Several loads later the pile has grown so much that it’s spilling out of the little house designed for it and across the bare earth of the yard.  Emma thinks that’s a good sign because they’ll be glad to have all this fire wood.  Also she found out that the cat had kittens and managed to entice one, a small black ball of fur, to come close enough that she could pick it up.  Although she could only hold onto the wriggling, mewling ball of fur for a few moments, she did find some comfort in stroking its soft coat.

And may have also vented a little of her annoyance by telling the kitten that Grumpy had nothing on Killian.

The distraction of the kitten meant that Killian had been left wondering where the wheelbarrow was, and he strides around the side of the barn, logs in hand, to find her.

“What’s that?”

“Kitten.”  Emma watches as a tiny black tail disappears behind a trough.

“No,” he points over her shoulder.  “That.”

Emma looks at where he’s pointing and assumes this must be some kind of joke at her expense because she asked such a silly question about the logs earlier.  “I know you’ve seen a log pile before so you can stop pretending.”

“But that’s not a log pile,” Killian argues, and that makes Emma turn her attention fully from the whereabouts of the recalcitrant kitten.

“Yes it is.  It’s a pile of logs.  What else would it be?”  She refrains from rolling her eyes, but, honestly, the joke is wearing a little thin.

Killian sets the wood in his arms down carefully and strides closer to the pile.  “It’s just…it’s everywhere.”  He kicks a piece with his foot which is a mistake because it ricochets into a large clump and several logs skitter down the pile and land at the bottom.  “You’re supposed to stack them,” he says, sounding bewildered.

“But you said to make a pile!”

“Because I thought you would know.” 

“How would I know when you used the word pile?”   Emma’s honestly confused because she tried, she really tried and woodpiles are, it seems, like porridge and one of the mysteries of the world she’s not been privy to up until now.

“No, well, I see now that I will have to be more specific next time,” Killian says, not really disguising the exasperation in his voice.  “And, also, that after I have split the kindling I see that I will have to actually pile this wood up so it doesn’t maim someone, or get drenched because it’s just lying out in the yard, or become the home of a vast colony of rodents.”

Those are, Emma admits, all good reasons for keeping the wood neatly stacked.  And she might be prepared to concede that, if, and it’s a big if, the person currently explaining them to her wasn’t quite so angry at her for not just knowing them in the first place.

She’s trying to think of a good comeback that puts the blame squarely back on Killian’s shoulders when Mistress Dab suddenly rounds the corner of the barn and she takes a deep breath in instead.  No point in letting on to their hostess that Killian is an unforgiving idiot and Emma herself doesn’t know a woodpile from a pile of wood.

A plastered on smile will hopefully save the day, or, at least, that’s Emma’s hope until she notices that the woman is chuckling to herself.

“You know, I wasn’t sure about you two when you first arrived…thought you might be one of those kidnapping things, or just kids running off to Helensville to get hitched.  But, I tell you, I ain’t ever seen two siblings argue over a woodpile like you two.  Not even my Jack and Jill, and they’ve had some right clangers.”

“Oh.  Right.”  Emma’s a little flummoxed, and when she looks over at Killian, he just looks ashamed, colour appearing high on his cheeks.

Well, he should be.

“Anyways, I just wanted to see how you were gettin’ on.  There’s progress, so that’s somethin’.  Despite the hollerin’.”  With that she chuckles again, and leaves.

“Well I wasn’t hollering.  At all.”  Emma decides that opening her defence with denial is her best tactic.  Just to get it out in the open.

If he hadn’t complained about the wood quite so much then Mistress Dab would have felt no need to comment.

“It’s hardly any matter now.  I still have to re-stack all of this and chop the kindling and the light has nearly gone.”

“I’ll help.”  Emma doesn’t expect that her offer will be gratefully accepted, but even so, the fact Killian completely ignores her still stings.

“Just…tell me what I’m supposed to do,” she tries, and he grudgingly turns around to look at her. 

“We need to stack it all, as close to the back as possible.”

Emma nods, wishing she’d had that information earlier and they set to work.  This way is definitely harder on the hands, and she feels as though she can’t really complain about the splinters she receives, but she’d like to all the same.

Also it’s a little frustrating when the cat finally deigns to come close enough to touch and Killian merely shoos it away by hissing at it. 

“You could at least be nice to the cat,” she remonstrates.  “I wanted to talk to it.”

“Can you speak to those, too?”

“No.  I just wanted, you know, to pet it.”  Killian’s face is still scrunched in confusion, much like it was when she was speaking to the bears.  “Like you do, with cats,” she finishes.

Killian gives a disgusted look.  “Chance would be a fine thing.  It’s likely to rip you to shreds first.”

“It seemed friendly.”  That’s a bold faced lie, but Emma doesn’t care in the slightest.

“Anyway, it has a job to do.  It would be bad form to let the farm get over-run with mice because you were too busy dangling a ball of wool for the cat.”

Emma gives up.  They’ll never agree on cats, it seems, any more than they can agree on the correct way to treat a pile of firewood.

Although she does have to admit that it’s better when it’s stacked up.

After that she trails Killian back to where he was chopping the wood, and watches as he uses a different axe with a smaller handle to split some of the firewood into slivers.

“Can I try that?” she asks, wondering if she’ll get the same brush-off she’s had before, but this time Killian actually stops and looks at her this time, holding out the axe.

“Go on, then,” he says, and there’s a hint of a challenge and Emma won’t get it wrong this time, she absolutely cannot afford a repeat of the whole woodpile debacle because she can’t bear the thought of being considered incompetent.

Not when she’d been the one to negotiate with the bears.

It takes her a few tries to get the axe to connect with the log and when it does, the wood doesn’t split quite as cleanly as it does for Killian, shearing off a strip that’s little more than just bark.  She half-expects him to point it out, but he doesn’t, instead he watches her curiously and she tries again, with more success this time.

Feeling more confident, she keeps going and finishes with the log before moving onto a second one.  Killian seems to be in his element gathering up the kindling and stacking it neatly in the wheelbarrow. 

“Perhaps I should have left the woodpile to you in the first place,” Emma says.

“Perhaps,” Killian agrees, and, although she’d like to have some praise for the job she’s doing with the kindling, none is forthcoming. 

Killian takes over again for the last couple of logs, and Emma makes a valiant effort at replicating his neat stacking, and then they take the kindling around to the woodpile, which is now being investigated by three kittens, which Killian looks as if he’s about to shoo before he checks himself and stops mid-hiss.

He glances sideways at Emma, before adding some of the kindling to the pile.  “If you take the rest into the kitchen, I’ll put the tools away,” he suggests and Emma nods, and gather up the wood in her arms, hoping she won’t suffer any further splinters in the process.

In the kitchen she places it beside the fire, a little more haphazardly than Killian might perhaps have done and wipes her hands on her apron, finding that she understands a little more about what use these garments have now. 

“So you’re the girl,” a deep voice says suddenly and Emma jumps in surprise and turns to see who it is all in the same movement.

“I…suppose.”  She looks around the kitchen, wondering where Mistress Dab has gone and why this man has suddenly appeared.

“Ma said she’d had some strangers turn up.  Where you from again?  The Maritime Kingdom, was it?”  The question sounds casual, but Emma isn’t sure of the man’s intent, he’s slowly but surely moving closer to her and soon she’ll have nowhere to go but up the chimney.

Clearly this is the Jack that Mistress Dab spoke of, the son whose cast-offs Killian was now lumbered with and who was, indeed, taller and broader with small dark eyes and almost no hair.  She’s faced bears this afternoon, but she finds that she likes being alone with this man even less.

“We are…lost,” Emma says, and is grateful when Killian enters before she has to add anything to the explanation of exactly how they came to be at the farmhouse. 

“And you’re the brother.”  Jack’s attention is now on Killian and Emma feels the tension in the room as they size each other up.  At any other time she’d be annoyed by such a brazen display of manliness, but right now she’s glad that there’s another person here to take the attention away from her.

“Aye,” Killian replies.

“I was tryna have a chat with your sister, but she don’t seem the chatty type.  Downright unusual in a woman, that.”  He laughs as though it’s the funniest thing in the world, his eyes sliding from Killian to Emma, waiting for them to join in.

Emma manages a weak smile, Killian remains stony-faced.  “Maybe she just doesn’t want to speak to you,” he says and the laughter abruptly stops.

Jack purses his lips and may be about to say something else, but his mother bustles in and tells them all to sit down so she can serve dinner.

Emma and Killian hesitate, unsure which chairs around the table to take.  Under less tense circumstances Emma may have told Killian to be careful with this time, it would be terribly _bad form_ to break another chair, but she is hardly in a joking mood.  Jack, for all the fact he’s smiling broadly at the food in front of him, has changed the mood utterly with his presence.

“Sit down,” Mistress Dab admonishes, banging some dishes on the table.

“Your daughter isn’t joining us?” Emma asks, finally choosing a chair and sitting down.

“She married near ‘bout six months ago.  Don’t see her much now as she’s busy with the baby.”  Mistress Dab pauses, as she takes her seat.  “Honeymoon baby, it was.”

“You keep sayin’ it, Ma, and maybe it’ll be true someday,” Jack adds, with a wink towards Killian and Emma as though it’s a joke they’re all in on.

“You hush up about your sister,” his mother scolds, and he sets about eating noisily instead, which Emma finds far preferable to any further talking or winking.

Killian also starts eating and Emma, as hungry as she still is, pokes her food with a spoon.  The contents of the bowl are all muddled together, everything a grey-brown and exactly which parts are meat and which vegetables are difficult to distinguish.  Still, at least it is not porridge and she takes a tentative bite of something mushy and…is it mutton?

Emma lifts her eyes from the bowl and realises that Mistress Dab is watching her curiously.  “It’s very good.  Is the mutton from your own farm?”

The woman seems pleased at her interest.  “Yes, that it is.”

“I have a flock of Merinos myself,” Emma says, thinking that his might be a safe topic of conversation. 

Jack screws up his face in disbelief.  “In The Maritime Kingdom?  Don’t think they go much in for farmin’ up there.”

“Well…in some parts they do.  I mean, it’s irresponsible for a kingdom to rely solely on trade with its allies.  That way lies economic ruin.”  Emma is pleased with her answer, but Jack and his mother look a little stunned and Killian taps her shin with his foot, none too gently.

She sighs.  Once again she’s fallen into the trap of regurgitating one of Princess Abigail’s lessons.  She’d done the same thing earlier in the day when she’d first mentioned her flock to Killian and then become flustered when she’d…well, it seems ridiculous now that she’d been so thrown by just touching him, because she’d been touching him all night.

“She says some strange things when she does get goin’, doesn’t she?” Jack says to Killian, like Emma isn’t even there at all.  She wants to open her mouth to protest, but Killian flashes a warning glance in her direction and she keeps her mouth shut.

“I don’t think she’s wrong,” Killian ventures, and Jack gives him a scathing look.

“Wrong ain’t same as strange.  Bet your folks’re real worried that she ain’t ever gonna be off your hands, things like that comin’ out of her mouth all the time.”

Emma bites hard on her tongue and tries to ignore the hot prick of tears behind her eyes.  It’s stupid, she knows, letting Jack get to her like this.  It’s probably not his fault that he’s ignorant and thoughtless and just plain _wrong_ , but she still can’t bring herself to forget the sneer in his voice as he spoke about her like that, right in front of her.

Clearly Jack is expecting Killian to join him in his appraisal of Emma’s unsuitability as a wife, but Killian’s jaw tightens and he simply mutters “She’s fine.”

It’s possibly the highest praise Killian’s given her since they’d arrived at the farm, and, in other circumstances, Emma may have been able to appreciate it.  But she can’t, not when Jack snorts unattractively and goes back to eating but his eyes keep flicking over to watch her as she eats.

It makes Emma’s stomach turn and it’s an effort to get through the rest of the stew.

When they’re done Mistress Dab tells Emma she can see to the dishes, which cause panic to flare up in her chest.  Emma tries not to look as incompetent as she feels as she gathers up the bowls and then stares around helplessly, wondering what the next step is.  They need to be cleaned, but where?  And with what?  And what do you do with the small bits of food still at the bottom? 

She stays rooted to the spot, wondering if Mistress Dab will give her any direction, but the woman has retired to a chair by the fire and is rooting through a bag of wool completely ignoring her.  Of course Jack is watching her intently, no doubt to see what she’ll do next and she’s still just standing there and feeling utterly foolish when Killian suddenly stands up.

“I’ll help.”  It’s such a relief that she can’t help but smile at him, because she had wondered if she’d be left to wipe the dishes out with her apron or something.

“She got you wrapped around her finger there, hasn’t she?  Your _sister_.”  There’s something of a question in the way Jack says the word sister, but Emma doesn’t care because she just has to get this one task done and then she’ll not have to speak or be near Jack ever again.

Sleeping in a barn had never seemed so appealing.

But Killian says something about needing to fetch water and then disappears out the door before Emma can even reply and she feels incredibly vulnerable, standing there still trying to work out where to put the dishes.  She had hoped that finding people, finding somewhere to stay would solve all their problems.

It’s just given them new ones.

“Scraps go in there for the pigs,” Jack says, pointing to a large bucket in the corner of the kitchen.

“Oh.  Of course.”  Emma should have realised from the smell coming from it that that was its purpose and she doesn’t relish spending time hovering over it, but it keeps her safely occupied and away from Jack at least.  But it doesn’t diminish Jack’s interest in what she’s doing and he’s watching her carefully.

“You ain’t done that much, have ya?” he observes.

“No, I have,” Emma lies.  “I mean…I’ve seen it and, um, my mother kept house for some dwarves.”

Jack screws up his face at her words.  “Dwarves!  They’re right nasty, smelly creatures, they are.”  And then he looks thoughtful.  “But you don’t get many Maritime Kingdom way, thought they all congregated round those mines, near Misthaven.”

Emma tries to think of an answer and is glad when Killian walks back in with the water. 

“Just been hearin’ about your ma cavortin’ with dwarves,” Jack says to him cheerfully and Killian stops in his tracks.

“No, she…” He catches Emma’s very pointed glance and his mouth slams shut.  “Oh.  Right.”

“Dead weird family, you lot,” Jack mutters, half to himself Emma thinks, and she doesn’t even want to attempt to answer that one.  Better to just carry on with her tasks, and the arrival of the water means she can move on to other things and not hover over the smelly slop-bucket any longer.

Jack watches them for a while longer and then leaves his place at the table and Emma pretends she hasn’t noticed and carries on with dunking the dishes into cold water so Killian can dry them with a rather dirty looking cloth.  When she does glance up at him, he looks pensive and she wants to suggest that they just leave now, but it’s completely dark and they have no chance of finding shelter anywhere else and Emma isn’t certain what she fears more, spending the night knowing that Jack is not far away, or being forced to huddle with Killian again so they don’t freeze to death.

One notion makes her skin crawl, the other makes her feel something else entirely.  Something she very much doesn’t want to think about right then.

With their task finished, Mistress Dab comes over to bid them goodnight.  “This is all I got to spare,” she says, pushing something dark and a little musty into Killian’s hands.  “But you’ll probably be better off sharing out there.  Gets a bit chilly, I daresay.”

Killian looks at the blanket he’s now holding and then at Emma, who goes over and picks up the basket the bears gave her.  “It’s alright,” she hisses.  “I’ve still got the baby blanket.”

They take a small candle from the table and make their way outside to the barn.  Emma expects that Jack will suddenly pop up again in the dark, but he’s nowhere to be seen and the scuttling noise that makes her start is merely one of the kittens.

“Bloody cats,” Killian murmurs, as he holds the candle out so they can examine the barn.  “Which side do you want?”

“Side?”

“Of the…the straw.”  Killian indicates where they’ll be sleeping, an area that Emma had assumed was reserved for the animals.  She’d known they were sleeping out here, known that they’d be unlikely to have beds as such, but even so…being confronted with the reality is something else altogether.

For a few moments she wonders whether, if she’d taken up Teddy’s offer to be her pet, she might have been allowed a bed at the bears’ cottage.

But she sets down her basket and asks Killian if she might borrow the candle for just a moment, venturing with it back out into the dark night where she pays a visit to the outhouse, pleased to find that her bleeding is at least almost at an end, and then onto the little shed where the tools were stored for something else to keep her comfortable through the night.

When she returns to the barn she finds that Killian has spread the blanket out on a patch of straw and is busy shooing a kitten away from it.  “I think they like you,” Emma comments.

“The feeling isn’t mutual.  Anyway, you can have the blanket.”

“I…but I have the baby blanket.”

“You’ll be more comfortable with something underneath you.  I’ve got this…coat.”  Killian sounds less than impressed with the idea of sleeping wrapped in Jack’s old coat but Emma’s tired and not in the mood to argue and quite frankly prepared to be a little bit selfish.

She blows out the candle and tries to settle herself down for the night, removing the corset part of her outfit and the well-worn boots, and placing her belongings within easy reach.  It takes a while to find a comfortable position, lying on the scratchy blanket with Teddy’s softer one over her, and she does her best to ignore the fact that Killian seems to be having trouble settling as well.  That is, if the constant rustling of the straw is anything to go by.

Despite her exhausting day, Emma finds it difficult to sleep.  Now that she is lying down she can catalogue every ache and pain quite clearly.  Her feet throb and sting, her hands burn and she can’t lie on her right side comfortably because there’s a bruise on her hip that she didn’t even know she had. 

The rustling isn’t just Killian either.  The farm cats must have decided that now is a good time to get to work for the night.  Or perhaps it’s their prey she can hear.  Or maybe something else entirely.  Emma doesn’t know.

She had hated sharing a bed with Eva in the nursery.  Now she’d give anything to go back to knowing who was keeping her awake and what on earth that scratching noise in the corner is.

She tries and she tries to relax enough to doze off and she is almost, almost there when she hears a new noise, a far more human noise.  Something hissing to get their attention in fact.

Killian, who she’d believed was actually asleep given by the way he’d stopped moving, jumps to his feet almost immediately and she hears him move to the door of the barn.  Emma stays still, but her hand reaches out for the item she’d procured earlier; the short-handled axe.

Straining to listen, at first she can’t make out what’s being said, just the murmur of two voices.  The other one is male, though, so it must be Jack.  After a few moments of hushed conversation his voice rises in volume and she can make out the words.  “I jus’ want a go with her, too.”

“What?”  Killian sounds disgusted at the very idea.

“Jus’…jus’ lemme, for a little bit, alrigh’?”  Jack’s words are slurred and he sounds a little desperate.

“No.”

“I got grog…you wanna drink, you can ‘ave one.”

“No.  That’s the…my…a sister.”

“Naaah.  Nah, she ain’t your sister.  I know what’s you’re up to.  You’re tryna steal her away, all for yerself, she ain’t in your league, mate.  And her family are gonna be right pissed when they find the pair of you shacked up, ain’t they?”

“No…” Killian starts to protest, but Jack has clearly warmed to his subject and cuts him off, getting louder as he does so.

“Nah, nah, nah.  I can tell, see?  ‘Cos I ain’t stupid.  You don’t even look alike.  You don’t even _sound_ nothin’ alike.  You mighta got me ma fooled, but not me, mate.  I reckon you’ve deserted outta the army or somethin’, those boots give you away like nothin’ else.  So unless you want trouble, mate, then let me…you know.  Jus’ for a little while.  I won’t break nothin’.  I just want to share her, like.”

“I’m not…I’m not sharing Emma.  She’s mine.”  Killian says it vehemently, almost as though it’s true.  And for a moment it gives Emma a weird thrill, before she realises that no, actually that’s not what she wants to hear _at all_.

“Now, bugger off and leave us both alone,” Killian says, his voice now raised.  It seems to do the trick with Jack, though.

“Yeah, yeah.  Sorry, mate…I jus’…she’s really, somethin’, i’nt she?”

“Go to bed.  Sleep it off.  I’ve no doubt you’ll regret all of this in the morning.”

Emma hears some more mumbled replies from Jack in response, before his footsteps shuffle away.  It’s not until there’s been complete silence for several moments that she hears Killian walk back across the crunchy straw to his side of the barn.

“He wanted to buy me,” Emma says, and she’s not sure if this is a question or just an observation.  The whole incident has made her uncomfortable if she’s honest, it wasn’t just Jack’s request that had done so, but Killian’s response to it as well.

“Aye.  He was…” Killian sits down on the straw and she hears him sigh.  “Under the impression it was possible.”

“But he asked you.”

“What?”  Killian sounds tired, and like he very much wishes to be done with any further conversation but Emma is wide awake and troubled and he’s just plain out of luck.

“He asked you….you know.  For me…to have me…”  Just thinking about it makes her shudder in disgust.  “That’s not right because it was me, he wanted, and the only one who sells me is me!”

Emma realises that what she’s said doesn’t sound quite right, but it’s too late.  “You want to sell yourself?” Killian asks, and he sounds a little more awake now, but utterly confused.

“Well, no.  No I don’t.  But I don’t think…I just think you should have asked me to deal with him.”

“I’m so sorry, for trying to help.  Or just for trying to keep him away from you.  I’ll just send all the wandering rapists directly to you in future.”

Killian’s choice of words are a little sobering, but Emma’s not defeated yet.  “Well I would have been fine.  I have a weapon.”  She sits up holding the short handled axe and, in the gloom of the barn, can just make out Killian leaning forward to peer at it.

“Is that the axe?”

“It is.”  Emma’s inordinately proud of her foresight, especially as, for once, she was proven correct.  “I thought it could be useful.”

“Because…because of him?” Killian asks.

“Well, yes.  Or anything else, really, that might be out here.  There was that noise earlier, and I don’t think that was a cat at all.”

There’s silence for a moment.  “And…me?”

“I didn’t know you wanted a weapon…but you could have used this, I suppose.  If you’d needed it.”

“No, I mean…”  Killian pauses again, and she hears some shuffling around in the straw.  “You thought you might need it, _for_ me.”

“No!  I wouldn’t…you wouldn’t…that is...”  Emma pauses and tries to collect her thoughts, unsure whether her outrage at the suggestion sounds false or not.  “If you’d wanted to do…anything, then you could have, I suppose.  And you haven’t.  So I trust you.  But not Jack…he was…he made me uncomfortable from the start.”

“But…I thought I did.”

“Did what?”

“Make you uncomfortable.  I know it’s not easy for you, this is all very different.  And I wish…it wasn’t.  But at the bears’ cottage…when that one that liked you wanted to keep us as a pair.  I saw your face…Emma.  You were horrified.”

Emma’s spent so much of the day assuming that Killian is regretting being stuck with her, she hasn’t really contemplated him thinking the same of her.  And, granted, she would prefer that they not be stuck here at all, that she had never fallen off the boat, that she hadn’t had to follow Eva out on deck, that she’d even just stayed on the same boat as Mama and Papa and right now was at home, asleep in her own bed.

But it didn’t happen that way.  And it could be worse, she supposes.  “At least you know about woodpiles,” she says, gently, but all she gets in response is a grunt of acknowledgement that could mean anything.  The moonlight that’s made its way through the gaps in the barn isn’t bright enough to allow her to see Killian’s face and she’s a bit flummoxed.

“It just…when Teddy was so eager to pair us up…I suppose it reminded me.  Of what will happen one day,” she says in the end.

“What do you mean?”

“That…I will, have to be paired up with someone.  Oh, it will be my choice…my parents won’t exactly sell me off…”  She pauses, realising she may have hit a sore spot but Killian doesn’t react and she carries on.  “But I’ll have to find someone, from the limited choices there are.  My prince definitely _won’t_ come, and I’ll have to just…well they’d like it if I married Freddy, I think.  Princess Abigail’s son.  But he’s only 15 and the last time I was there he put frogs in my bed and spent three days calling me the frog princess.”

“And what did you do?”

“There wasn’t much I could do.  I was a guest.  Well, alright.  I may have tripped him up when we were in the garden and he was standing far too close to that pile of manure the gardeners were spreading around.  But other than that, I just had to live with it.  And I’ll have to live with one day choosing a husband, too.  It’s my duty.  You understand that, don’t you?”

“Aye.  I do.”  She sees some movement that is probably Killian nodding.  “It would be bad form to neglect your duty.”

“Yes.  But I won’t be able to do anything unless I get home, in one piece.  And you’ve been very…helpful, with that.  So I trust you and I’m not…I’m not…horrified that you’re here.”  It’s not the best speech ever made, and Emma doubts it would send anyone out to die in her name, or any of the other noble sacrifices that monarchs usually require of their subjects, but she hopes it will persuade Killian that she’s not completely disappointed with his company.

In fact, if she thinks about it, really the only good thing to come out of the whole day, other than perhaps finding out she understands bears, or the revelation of the apple, is that she finds Killian intriguing, and it’s probably the only chance she’ll ever have to spend time with a man who isn’t sizing her up for marriage.

“We should sleep.  We’ll have to clear out quickly in the morning.  Jack’ll wake with a sore head, and perhaps an even sorer temper when he realises that he didn’t get what he wanted.”

“Yes.  Right.  Well I still…”

“And I’d like to prevent an axe murder,” Killian says, quickly.

“Oh.  Well, of course.  Probably not the best thing to do.”

“I’m sorry, though.  That I didn’t let you…deal with him earlier.  Not…not, kill him…”  Emma makes a tutting noise because, really, she wouldn’t have hurt him unless he absolutely couldn’t be reasoned with.  “But I’m sorry I spoke…for you.”

“That’s…let’s just forget it ever happened.”  Emma’s voice sounds way too happy as she says that, but the whole thing is awkward and awkward just makes her morph into her mother.  It makes her wonder, now, how her mother ever came to be that way in the first place.

They lie down again, and there’s more rustling as they both try to get comfortable.  “You can share, if you like,” Emma says.

“What?”

“The blanket.  The one I’m lying on.  It’s fairly wide.  You could lie on that too…if you wanted.”  Emma isn’t certain if it’s just some residual guilt that prompts her to make the offer, and she waits for Killian to answer.  He’s obviously weighing up the pros and cons.

Perhaps he’s still worried about her fascination with the axe.

“You won’t mind?” he asks in the end.

“I coped with worse last night,” she reminds him.  That seems to settle the matter and she feels rather than sees him move closer, and then there’s a shifting in the straw beneath her as Killian lays down on the other side of the blanket and covers himself in the coat again.

She had, perhaps, underestimated the size of the blanket because, although he is lying behind her, she’s still acutely aware of just how close he is and she spends what seems like an age listening to the sound of him breathing, in and out, until it becomes apparent that he’s fallen asleep and Emma is left to wonder just how many nights it will be until she is home again. 

**Thanks for reading!**


	8. Chapter 8

Killian wakes with a start, and feels like he hasn’t slept at all.  It had taken him a long time to fall asleep, not just because the ground was hard and the coat he was sleeping under was scratchy and unpleasant.  Not even just because he missed the gentle swaying of the ship and the sounds of the ocean.  No, what had stopped him from resting comfortably was the Princess Emma or, more correctly, her proximity.

Now, in the morning light, he sees that it’s become even worse in the last few hours and that she has managed to move a remarkable distance all while remaining completely asleep.  He has now been all but pushed off the blanket they are lying on by Emma.  And yet still she’s far too close for comfort.

Or, rather, she’s close enough that all he can think about is touching her and, worse, his body is betraying him in ways he really doesn’t want Emma to discover.  Given the conversation they’d had the night before, and her possession of that axe, he needs to remove himself from the situation as fast as he can.

Rolling off the blanket and onto the straw, Killian divests himself of the coat and stands up as silently as possible.  He looks back over his shoulder, but Emma is still slumbering and he judges himself safe. 

Next he ventures outside the barn, hoping that there will be no sign of Jack.  Killian’s met drunkards like him before and it is the unpredictability of their behaviour that is the most dangerous thing.  He hopes the man has found somewhere to sleep off his hangover and isn’t looking to cause more trouble.

Killian makes it to the outhouse without spotting anyone other than a few of the numerous farm cats.  The place is really over-ridden with them and he can’t say that he’s grown any fonder of the creatures since he’s arrived here.

He finds that it’s easier to get himself under control now he’s away from Emma and no longer surrounded by her heat and her smell and the fact that she’s just so bloody tantalising.  Even so, he stands outside the barn for a few moments, gulping in the cool morning air, before he can bring himself to go near Emma again.

Mostly, he tells himself he doesn’t want to frighten her by acting inappropriately, although he knows that the real reason is that he absolutely does not want to give himself away.  It would simply be too shameful to have Emma know that he desires her when she has been so trusting and offered him her friendship.  It was more than he should expect from a princess, really.

She could have just left him with the bears, he supposes. 

Therefore he’ll do anything he can just to keep her goodwill so that they can get back to her home and arrive in the Enchanted Forest with their friendship intact.

Entering the barn again Killian sees that, in his absence, Emma has continued sleeping, but has rolled onto her back taking up even more of the blanket.  Also, there is a cat balanced on her chest.

The cat doesn’t seem to bother Emma, who remains fast asleep and snoring ever so slightly.  Killian isn’t certain, though, whether it’s wise to let the cat stay where it is.  At what point will Emma stop being able to breathe?

The cat isn’t as large as some of the others.  No longer a kitten, it isn’t completely full-grown, Killian thinks, but even so.  Maybe it was still big enough to cause problems.

The cat raises its head a little and looks straight at Killian, giving him a self-satisfied smirk, before it closes its eyes in contentment.  It seems to Killian that as far as the cat is concerned, it’s won because it has Emma.

That just isn’t right.

Killian crouches down and hisses in the cat’s direction, but the thing won’t even open an eye in acknowledgement, let alone get off Emma.  It’s probably because it has to spend every day in a constant battle to the death for survival with the rest of its family members, Killian thinks.  Cats are vicious creatures after all.

He really doesn’t want to touch it, and he definitely doesn’t want to get that close to Emma herself and he wishes she’d just wake up so they can leave the farm before anything else happens.

Oh, bugger it.  He’ll just have to move the bloody creature.

Fully expecting that Emma will wake long before he’s anywhere near her and shove the cat off herself, he crouches down and reaches out for the cat who makes a decent job of ignoring him completely.  And then two things happen at once; the cat jumps down and disappears across the barn at a run, and Emma’s eyes open wide, immediately focusing on the fact that Killian’s hands are poised above her chest.

“What are you doing?” she asks, frowning.

“Removing a cat.”  He realises that the whole situation looks a little, well his hands are awfully close and he’s kind of looming over her.  It will not do him any favours to lie at this point in time.  However, the truthfulness of his words do not appear to be Emma’s most pressing concern.

“What cat?”

Killian sits back on his heels.  “Well it’s gone _now_.  It was sleeping on your chest but I got rid of it.”

“Oh.”  It’s not exactly an enthusiastic response and, while he was hardly expecting that she’d be elated by this turn of events he does feel that she probably likes breathing more than cats.  “Was it the ginger one with the white tummy?  I think it likes me quite a lot.  I hope you didn’t hurt it or anything.”

He’s a little annoyed by her assumption that he would hurt a cat, and still completely perplexed by her admiration for the creatures.  If anyone was going to sustain an injury from the encounter, it was far more likely to be him.  He’s not the one with claws and sharp teeth.

“No this one was grey.  And I think it had evil intentions.”

Emma sits up, looking disgruntled.  “Fine!” she huffs, throwing off the blanket covering her.  “What time is it anyway?”

“Uh…five, I think.”

Emma looks incredulous.  “In the morning?”

“Well.  Yes.  We probably need to start walking if we’re going to make any progress today.”  Killian carefully doesn’t mention Jack, not wanting to upset Emma more than she already seems to be.  It was just a cat; he doesn’t really understand why she’s so annoyed.

“That’s easy for you to say, your feet aren’t cut to ribbons already!”  The vehemence of Emma’s words send Killian reeling back a little, and he tries to think of a reply but none is immediately forthcoming.  Emma fills the silence anyway with a loud sigh and some distinctly annoyed muttering, while she pulls on her boots and then stomps out of the barn.

It wasn’t the way Killian had hoped to start the morning.  And it doesn’t look like it’s going to get any better because Emma returns a few moments later, as Killian is folding the blankets they’ve used, and says loudly “I forgot the rags!”, almost as though she thinks it might be Killian’s fault she made the oversight.

He wishes there was something he could say to defend himself or maybe just deflect her attention elsewhere, but she’s gone, leaving a trail of destruction from rifling through the basket looking for what she needs, before he can come to the conclusion that silence is the best option.

Killian resumes folding blankets and making certain their meagre provisions are properly stored in the basket and eventually Emma returns.  “You’re very tidy.  You fold things neatly,” she says, and he’s not certain if that’s an accusation or just an observation. 

Either way it’s not something he’s ever given much thought to, he just does what he’s been taught to do for more years than he count.  But, even as he has that thought he realises he makes him sound as though he’s just some kind of servant and it’s not how he wants Emma, of all people, to view him.

She has other matters on her mind, anyway.  Killian watches as she shakes her hair, repeatedly, trying to look over her shoulder as she does so.  “I’ll never get all the straw out of my hair.”

Killian is rather pleased that he immediately comes up with an answer to this comment.  After being stunned into silence by everything else Emma has muttered, observed or complained about this statement of hers feels much easier to address.  “At least it’s the same colour so it won’t show up.”

He realises, immediately, that it was the wrong thing to say.  “My hair looks like straw?”  For a moment her lip wobbles and he’s worried that she might cry, but she sighs and fixes him with a rather fearsome frown instead.  “Well _that’s_ the sea water.”

That definitely sounds like an accusation to Killian and it’s on the tip of his tongue to remind her that it wasn’t his decision that Emma to go flying overboard, but he keeps his thoughts to himself and Emma seems to forget what she’s said anyway.

“I’m taking this,” she says, picking up the axe.

“Fine.”  He’s in no mood to argue with her, and the way in which she’s currently swinging the axe around doesn’t make him want to re-consider his decision.  Last night she may have stated that she never intended to brandish a weapon in his direction but in the cold light of morning, and with full knowledge that he nearly touched one of the feline hoard she seems to have appointed herself the protectress of, he isn’t so certain.

At any rate it appears the princess is not at her best in the morning, although it’s not a theory he’s in a great hurry to test.  He’ll simply assume he’s correct until proven otherwise, and the face she is currently making while she re-laces the corset around her waist is simply suggesting he’s absolutely not mistaken.

But perhaps it would be best not to stare too openly at Emma while she’s dressing because the corset does…interesting…things to her figure.

“Alright,” she announces, picking up the axe again.  “I’m ready.  Let’s go.”

Killian collects the basket and they make their way out of the barn into the weak morning sunlight.  Emma follows quietly, holding the axe but only until they encounter the cats who are milling around the yard, and then she quickly shoves it into the basket Killian is carrying and picks up a kitten instead.

“Goodbye,” she murmurs, shoving her nose into the thing’s fur.  Killian hopes it doesn’t have fleas.  Does a princess even know what fleas are, or are they in the same category as porridge and apples?  He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t think it’s a good idea to ask, because really now that she’s picked up a second one and is holding the pair of them to her chest, what’s done is done.

Maybe he won’t share a blanket with Emma tonight.

The kittens mewl in, what Killian thinks is, a desperate plea to be released from Emma’s clutches.  She doesn’t seem to understand _that_ at all. 

“You’re all so snuggly and cute,” she coos, as she takes a step towards Killian.  Without thinking, he moves the basket away from her and behind his back.

“We can’t take _them_ with us.”

Killian expects that remark will make Emma angry, but instead she looks thoughtful, and then she looks towards the basket, still with a kitten clutched in each hand.

“No,” he says, with as much authority as he can muster, standing in a cat-infested yard and wearing another man’s clothes.

“Fine!” Emma huffs again, which is hardly a denial on her part, and she places the kittens on the ground reluctantly.

Finally they set off. 

The pace is decidedly slower than Killian would have expected.  He thought that boots would make Emma’s progress easier, but it seems that they fit her no better than Jack’s cast-off clothing does him and she drags her feet as they walk away from the farmhouse and down a dirt track that leads them past a never-ending parade of trees but no further signs of habitation.

It is going to be a long day.

They’ve been walking for a half hour or so, Killian thinks, before Emma actually speaks again.  And then it’s only to ask if they can have breakfast.  He stops and digs carefully in the basket, mindful of the blade of the axe, and pulls out the last two honey cakes.

They are a little stale now, but they will have to do and mostly he is glad that Emma isn’t complaining about them.  Although her topics of conversation still leave a lot to be desired.  “Why don’t you like cats?” she asks, as soon as she has licked the last crumbs from her fingers.

On the surface it seems a fairly innocent inquiry, but Killian is worried that there is some latent accusation lurking in its depths.  He can hardly go back to the farm now and produce the grey cat, unharmed, as proof that he committed no evil actions against it.

“Uh, I am just…wary of them, I suppose.”

The princess’s nose wrinkles a little at that.  He likes to think of that as her porridge face; something she makes when she’s faced with a thing she can’t imagine possible.  It’s preferable, however, to the apple face which accompanies a vehement refusal to acknowledge any viewpoint but her own.

She might occasionally be a pain in the arse, but she is at least an interesting person to study.  He just wishes she could come up with a more interesting set of questions for him.  Or, at least, some that were unlikely to turn a perfectly amenable porridge faced situation into an apple faced one.

“But what could they do to you?”  Emma waves a hand up and down in front of him, as though she thinks him somewhat remarkable.  “They’re so little.”

“They have claws and teeth.  And farm cats are not pets, any more than ships’ cats are.”

“Ah.”

“What do you mean, ah?”

“You’re scared of them.”

“No.”  Killian thinks his denial would have sounded a lot better had his voice not been quite so high.  He attempts the statement again.  “No.  I just have a healthy admiration for their ability to get what they want.”

Emma gives him an amused look, one he hasn’t categorised yet, although he suspects it might be termed her I will let this one pass face.  He wishes he had more charity so he could appreciate her beneficence, but mostly he feels a little embarrassed.

“Speaking of boats,” Emma begins, changing the subject again.  “Or…ships…I know Mistress Dab said there wasn’t a port _nearby_ but if we got to one, do you think we could get one?  And go home?”

“A boat?”

Her eyes shine with excitement.  “Yes!”

“No!  I’m not throwing away my career and turning pirate.  And besides, anything large enough to navigate the channel between here and Misthaven would be too big for me…for the two of us, to manage.  No, we’ll have to continue overland.”

Emma visibly slumps at his words and she shuffles her feet along the ground.  It’s clear they’re troubling her, but he’s not sure what to suggest.  Resting this early in the day seems to be a luxury they can’t afford.

“Maybe we could steal some other type of transport,” Emma suggests, having clearly missed part of his previous statement.  “Like a horse…if we found one.  Or a cart or something.”

“If we just happen to find one lying around.”

“Well, yes.  I mean, I would return it.  Or at least offer compensation to its owner when I am safely home.  But in the meantime we could borrow it.”

“Steal it, even.”

Emma frowns at him, but carries on.  “Perhaps someone passing might be able to lend us something.”

“Perhaps we could take up highway robbery.  We do have the axe, after all.”

And there it is.  An apple face.  “You’re deliberately missing the point.  And you’re being awfully sniffy about the whole borrowing thing.  You know, it’s kind of important that I get home.  And my mother was a bandit, you know.  It worked out alright for her in the end.  Certainly she didn’t throw away her career, as you put it.”

Killian feels that there is a distinct difference between hereditary titles and a naval commission, but doesn’t feel the need to enlighten Emma on that matter just at the moment.  He has other more pressing concerns to draw to her attention.

“Yes, and as I am given to understand it her wanted posters were prominently displayed everywhere from the Maritime Kingdom to Dunbroch.  If we are to get you home safely, a very _important_ mission I agree, then it might be easier if no one in this not-so-very-friendly part of the world is looking for you because you stole a donkey!”

Killian feels he would enjoy the fact he had a perfectly reasonable rebuttal to her suggestion a little more were it not for the way Emma crumples in front of him, much like she did after attempting a conversation with the wrong bird.  One minute she is standing beside him, the next she is on the ground with her face in her hands.

“You don’t understand,” she mumbles.  “They’ll be worried about me…about what’s happened to me.  And they might try…”  Emma uncovers her face and looks up with eyes that are shiny with tears.  “They might try to get me back and I don’t want anything bad to happen to anyone because I fell off the bloody stupid ship!”

Killian’s uncertain whether to be offended by her description of the _Jewel_ or pleased that at least Emma has recognised she’s a ship.  He’s considering what on earth he can say to comfort her when they hear the sounds of a cart making its way along the track and Emma scrambles to her feet and turns to face the direction of the noise.

He feels like caution is their best defence and wants to suggest hiding in the undergrowth, but Emma squares her shoulders and he assumes she is ready to face this head on.  Even so, he moves to her side and sort of places the basket in front of them, almost as though it will protect them from whatever’s coming by simple virtue of containing the axe.

What appears around the bend is a large cart, pulled by two even larger horses and crammed with people, all of whom are staring at Emma and himself as they come closer.  Or, at least, that’s how it feels to Killian who is immediately aware that he is dressed in too-big clothing and slightly grimy and unkempt to boot.

Emma clearly doesn’t feel any such thing.  She waves at the pairs of staring eyes, and a large number of hands wave back enthusiastically.  Killian briefly contemplates using the basket to swat at her arm and make her stop, but it wouldn’t do any good now.  The driver is pulling the cart to a halt in front of them.

“Hello there!” the driver says with an exuberance that Killian marvels at.  Perhaps it’s forced, or designed to hide some darker purpose.  Surely no one would be that happy to see a pair of strangers on the side of the road, not even this man with his broad, smiling face topped with a brown cap.

“We don’t often see no one else out here,” he continues.  “What’s a pair like you doing wandering this road?”

“We are…” Emma begins slowly, and it’s not difficult to see the panic in her eyes as she thinks of a plausible reason, but then the woman next to the driver slaps him on the shoulder with the back of her hand and rolls her eyes.

“Don’ be daft, Billy.  They’ll be goin’ to the market at Waterlea, same as the bloody rest of us.”

“Yes.  That’s exactly it,” Emma says, nodding a little too vigorously and smiling far too widely and Killian feels like they’ve been down this road before and hiding would have been a much better plan. 

“He is a daft apeth at times, honestly!” the woman sitting beside the driver volunteers, looking fondly at the man beside her.  She’s almost as broad as the man she’s sitting next to, with dark hair and an easy laugh.

“I am, that.  Ma always said that I’d forget my head if it wasn’t screwed on.  I’m Bill by the way.  Bill Schumacher.”  He nods politely at Emma.

Killian realises that they need to introduce themselves, but he’s started wondering if it’s prudent to stick to their real names.  How long before news of a missing Princess Emma travels to this kingdom, and people start connecting it to that odd girl called Emma they’ve come across?

It appears Emma has had the same thoughts, although quite where she’s come up with pseudonyms from, Killian doesn’t know.  “I’m Bella,” she offers.  “And this is Edward.”

Killian half-expects that one of the cart’s occupants will call their bluff and denounce them for the imposters they are, but no one bats an eyelid, save the woman beside the driver who says “And you don’t half make an ‘andsome pair, ‘n all.”

Emma doesn’t seem to have a ready answer for that comment and Killian’s momentarily a little pleased that she isn’t digging a larger hole for them to tumble into, before he realises that perhaps he should actually be offended by her silence.

“I’m Rosie,” the woman continues.  “Bill’s wife.  This is our son Little Tom.”  A small boy peers shyly around his mother from the end of the seat. 

“And that lot in the back is the rest of the family,” Bill continues, gesturing to the people seated in the cart.  “Well some of it, anyroads.  Them’s me brothers Big Tommy, Georgie, Freddie and Joe, and me sisters Tilly, Marcie, Edie, Frannie and Lil’s there carryin’ her own bairn, Tiny Tommy.  Alright, did I forget anyone?”

“Me!” a small girl’s voice pipes up and Bill looks over his shoulder. 

“Right, yeah.  Forgot Lizzie, but it’s ‘cos you’re so forgettable, innit?”

“You hush yer mouth!” his sister calls back, but Bill is grinning and clearly not troubled by her ire.

“Well it’s lovely to meet you all,” Emma says, using such a polite voice that it’s odd to hear it coming out of her mouth and Killian nods, hoping that will do as acknowledgment.

“You say that now!” Rosie says, laughing while her husband watches.

“Oi!  Cut it out, we’re a lovely bunch, ain’t we?” Bill replies, and there’s a chorus of affirmation from the cart itself before he turns back to Emma.  “And what are you two off to the market for this mornin’?”

“Well, you see I have this axe…” Killian’s heart plummets as cold dread about what Emma’s next words will be takes over.  Surely she wouldn’t actually try to hold up an entire family?

“…and I need to have it sharpened,” she finishes, turning to give Killian a smile, almost as though she had guessed what he was thinking which displeases him greatly because he doesn’t feel like he was judging her without there being a perfectly valid reason to do so.

He’s so intent on trying to communicate this to Emma, silently, that he misses part of what Bill says next, only hearing him say”…’course it’s a little cramped back there and you’ll have to double up, but I figure he won’t mind you in his lap for the journey.”

That’s when Killian notices that Bill’s pointing at him and he’s clearly the one referred to in the previous sentence.  He would try to get Emma to shed a little light on the subject, but she’s disappeared, skipping around to the back of the cart far quicker than anyone troubled by their feet should be able to.  He’s been left standing dumbly, still holding the basket.

“Off you go and ‘op on up, Ed,” Bill adds, and Killian stands there, still wondering if Emma’s going to explain it to him when he realises that Bill’s giving him an instruction.  He’s sure that Emma thought using aliases were a sound idea when she gave them out, but he might have liked a little time to get used to exactly what his name is now meant to be.

Feeling a little sullen about the whole thing, he follows Emma around to the back of the cart and, under the instructions of one of the boys there passes up the basket. 

“There’s a seat at the back, there,” the same boy says.  Perhaps he’s a Tommy.  Most of the people on the cart seem to be a bloody Tommy.  Maybe Emma should have given him that name as well and made it easier on everyone?

Killian climbs up and then turns to help Emma do the same and then, haltingly, he makes his way past assorted children and belongings and down to where a seat against the edge is, indeed, available and he sits, squashed between a small girl who keeps sniffing and an oversized basket.  By now he’s feeling so disgruntled about the whole thing and the prospect of what’s to come that he’s surprised his scowl doesn’t make them re-think their offer and ask him to get off the cart.

But, instead, they smile at him and Killian watches, feeling more apprehensive by the moment, as Emma inches her way along the same route and comes to a stop in front of him before, gingerly, lowering herself into his lap.

It’s excruciatingly embarrassing.  And simply made worse by all the curious eyes staring at them.  It’s easy to tell that the people in the cart, most of whom are children, are all related.  They have the same wide brown eyes, and freckled faces, all of which seem to be currently smirking in his direction.

“Alrigh’.  Let’s be off, then!” Bill calls from the front of the cart, and they start moving.  Killian tries to avoid the gazes of the cart’s other occupants by finding somewhere else to look, but it’s a fruitless exercise.  Or, rather, what’s directly in front of his eyes now is Emma’s bosom and it’s clear from the way in which the movement of the cart is affecting the flesh on view that the dress and corset she’s wearing is far too large and he’s afraid that looking for too long will make him appear to be some kind of cad but he’s struggling to tear his eyes away.

Emma, thankfully, seems oblivious to his distress clearly preferring to view him as nothing more than the furniture she’s now using him as.  But even this has its drawbacks as the cart manages to find every rut and pothole in the narrow, twisting track and Emma tries to find herself a more secure position by wriggling around in a most distracting fashion.

If Killian could just block out almost all of his senses he’d be fine.  But he can’t.  And he is stuck now, pinned beneath the wriggling, jiggling, completely mesmerizing Emma.

He had thought that his proximity to her while they slept had made it difficult to maintain a sense of decorum, but this is far worse.  In a last-ditch effort to keep his dignity he tries to position Emma further down his legs, but she clearly finds this a more precarious position and quickly leans sideways, placing an arm around his shoulders.

He’s done himself no favours as all he’s managed to achieve is the need to cling to Emma’s waist so she doesn’t fall onto the floor of the cart the next time they hit a particularly deep rut and a closer view of her bosom.

Killian closes his eyes and hopes that this market isn’t far and that the journey will be over very shortly. 

He’s not that lucky, however, and when they do stop, after what seems an extraordinarily long time, the cart comes to a halt only for what Bill calls a comfort stop.  And while Killian is far more comfortable out of the cramped cart, especially since the small, sniffing girl next to him had fallen asleep on him some time back, he knows this is only a temporary reprieve before they have to continue their journey.

After finding a space in the trees where he can relieve himself, Killian joins the occupants of the cart again who have now spread themselves around a clearing and, from the looks of it, are enjoying the contents of the basket that’s been digging into his side for more than an hour.  He can see Emma taking a large chunk of bread and some cheese.

Well that’s just…all very well for her.

He isn’t certain how welcome he’ll be but he takes a place on the ground beside Emma and murmurs some thanks when he’s passed something to eat.

It appears that he’s interrupted Emma’s conversation with the girl with the baby…is she Lil?  Killian can’t remember, the names all blending together as much as the faces do.  If Emma is having the same difficulty it clearly isn’t bothering her at the moment.

“So you’re not married yet, then?” the girl asks, looking from Emma to Killian. 

“Uh, well…no,” Emma answers, haltingly, twisting to look at Killian who can’t offer much help to this question.  At least no one is accusing them of lying outright this time, and trying to keep up the charade of being related around such a large family would be difficult, but this is a mire he definitely doesn’t want to fall into.

Still, he is curious to hear what Emma says.  “I mean…I’m too young, still.  Really.  I think, anyway,” she offers in the end, not sounding certain herself.

The other girl frowns at her as she shifts the baby in her arms.  “’ow old are you, then?”

“Eighteen.”

This earns Emma an outright snort of derision which, Killian notes, makes her blink in a slightly flustered manner. 

“You’re the same age as me,” the girls says.  “And I’ve been married two years gone, now.  Only the one babe, though, although Bill says I gotta get a wriggle on if I’m gonna beat our ma at the havin’ babies stakes.  She had 25, she did.  There’s 23 of us still here.  I ain’t goin’ anywhere near that record!”  She laughs, loudly, and Killian sees the baby startle slightly as his mother rocked back and forth.

“Right.  Well.  My mother only had the six, so…”  Emma falters, clearly not sure where that train of thought was going.  She turns to Killian, as though expecting him to step in, but this is not a subject he is touching with a bargepole, so she is out of luck as he quickly diverts his eyes to the bread still in his hands as though it is the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

And it is good food, and much appreciated, but possibly not deserving of quite such determined attention.  If Emma is annoyed by this, well he’s not going to look and find out. 

Consequently, he misses the exchange between Emma and the girl and how Emma ends up holding the baby.  When he does turn to look Emma’s holding it gingerly, almost as though it might hurt her.

“Why’ve you got the baby?” he asks.

"Lil had to go and, uh...you know," she says indicating one of the thickets of trees with her head. "She said I probably needed the practice."

"Oh."

Emma looks a little thoughtful as the baby starts to squirm in her arms and then lets out one long wail. "You know," she says.  "If anyone needs the practice, it's probably you."

If he had thought that her constant need to thrust cats in his direction was bad, then this is far worse.  Killian holds up his hands in protest.  “I don’t need no practice,” he says, hearing just a moment too late that the accent he normally tries so hard to keep in check had slipped through.  Most likely it was a result of time spent listening to the squabbling, noisy Schumachers, but it was embarrassing all the same.

“Any practice,” he corrects, although Emma is still mostly intent on pushing the now crying baby into his arms.

“No, go on,” she says, as though she is pressing a tasty morsel into the hands of some demurring dinner guest.  “It will just be for a moment until Lil gets back.”

“Well you can manage then.  I’m sure with all your past practice you don’t need my help.”

Emma frowns, making it patently obvious that he isn’t doing what she wants him to.  “Just go on.  It won’t hurt you, it’s not a _cat_.”

Killian looks at the red-faced, squalling infant and immediately decides it’s something far worse.  “No,” he says through gritted teeth, and he’s about to elaborate on why he doesn’t want the thing when its mother suddenly appears and rescues it from Emma’s less than loving embrace.

“Look at you two,” she says, jiggling the baby up and down which at least makes it stop crying quite so vigorously.  “You certainly got that part of marriage down pat, already.  No one ever wants the fussy baby.”

“I…well, no…”  Emma’s denial is pointless, Killian thinks.  It was plainly obvious neither of them wanted it, but quite what that has to do with marriage he has no clue because as far as he’s concerned it’s just plain common sense.

But they’ve been lying to Lil, to all of them he supposes, so he can’t really blame her for being confused about what she’s seeing.

Bill calls to everyone that they’re leaving again, and they make their way back to the cart.  Killian’s relieved when, after some negotiation, Emma takes the seat of the small girl next to him, putting the child on her lap.  Or at least it seems like a better way to travel until they both fall asleep and slump against him, leaving Killian feeling almost numb on one side and cramped and uncomfortable.

But it is definitely easier not to have to worry about where his eyes might accidentally roam, or at least it is until Lil starts feeding her baby and he decides that perhaps the floor of the cart is the best thing he can focus on right then.

They begin to pass a few small farms, then a few more and, finally, the cart pulls into a small market town, notable for the large mill beside the river running beside it.  He tries elbowing Emma gently, but it takes several shakes of his arm before she stirs and makes a grumpy noise.  The girl, however, who is now laying across both of their laps, refuses to move at all and Killian is forced to poke her quite hard in the ribs to make her wake up.

He feels a little bad about it, but it’s been a long ride and as much as he appreciated not having to walk it will also be nice not to feel like a chair for a while.

By the time he gathers up their basket and climbs down from the cart, Emma is busy saying her goodbyes to the family, hugging some of them and looking excited at the prospect of being in town.

Killian’s feeling less excited about that.  More people mean more chance of being discovered as far as he’s concerned, and while the Schumachers have been nothing but welcoming to both Emma and himself, he doesn’t know what he’ll find amongst the town’s inhabitants.

“Now don’t be strangers, you hear?” Lil says to Emma.  “We want to hear about the weddin’ and such like when it comes.”

Killian only realises he’s frowning when Lil points to him and says “Oh look at that face!  They all want to pretend you’re trapping them, but they’re ‘ardly lambs to the slaughter, you poor ‘ard done by love.”

“Leave ‘im alone, Lil,” Billy warns his sister.  “’e’ll go red again, poor fella.”

He’d like to dispute that, but Emma giggles and he realises that there’s a very real possibility that he may, indeed, blush with all eyes on him and he’d really like to just get away from the whole cart load of them.

Only when they do manage to extricate themselves he still has Emma by his side and absolutely no clue about what to do next.  It’s early afternoon and the town is bustling, stalls set up along the main thoroughfare selling just about everything.  Emma is immediately drawn to the ones selling food and he can see her eyeing up some cherry tarts which do, indeed, look appetising.

But they don’t have any money, so purchasing anything is out of the questions and he’s not prepared to test his ability to liberate any without being noticed by the proprietor or other customers when there are quite so many other people around and he isn’t certain of the best route for escape.

Emma turns away from the cakes on display and looks serious.  “We need money,” she says, as though she’d been listening in to Killian’s own thoughts.

“Yes.”  He feels like agreeing with her is a little redundant, but he’s curious to see where her train of thought is going.  She might suggest violence, or dishonesty, or she might have another plan altogether.  He’s discovered that he can’t really tell as far as Emma is concerned and it’s certainly interesting.

“I’m going to sell these.”  She holds out her hand and shows him two large pearls.

“Where’d they come from?”

“My dress.  I pulled them off before I left it.  I think they’ll be worth something, don’t you?”  She crinkles her forehead and looks thoughtful.

“They will be, but I don’t know who around here would be able to pay what they’re worth.”

“Well…just anything would be useful.  Enough for some food, perhaps.”  Her eyes drift back to the cherry tarts.

“I suppose we look around then.”  They walk the rows of stalls looking for one which appears to be a good prospect.  It’s strangely enjoyable spending this time with Emma, even though she stops to examine almost every article for sale on every stall.  She’s particularly taken with some unicorns, made from old pieces of metal.

Holding one up to the sun she examines it closely. 

“Do you like unicorns?” Killian asks, after several moments of silence.

“I have glass ones hanging up in the castle.  Well, they were in the nursery, anyway.  I suppose they remind me of…good things.”  She places the unicorn back on the stall and looks a little wistful.

Killian wishes he had his own purse here so he could buy the thing for her.  It’s an absurd notion though, because, under normal circumstances, she’s have enough funds of her own to buy all the souvenirs she wants.  Why would she accept his meagre offering?

But she looked happy when she held it in her hands.  And Killian would very much like to see that look on her face again.

Eventually they locate a man, dressed in clothes which were once grand, but are now grimy and faded, who is selling what he calls ‘house lots’ which mainly consists, Killian thinks, of everything left behind when people die.  His stall is piled with china and silverware, paintings and embroidered cloths, with a few brooches and earrings mixed in amongst the wares.

He eyes them suspiciously when they first approach and grows even more hesitant when Emma presents the pearls to him.

"Where'd you get them fings from, eh?" he asks.

"My mother," Emma replies simply. "And, uh...she would have wanted me to use the money for our wedding."  She grabs Killian's arm, yanking him to her side, as she fixes the man with a simpering smile.

"Well..." he says, stalling for time.  "I guess I could do you a deal.  Won't be much, mind. They ain't got the lustre of real pearls, see."

Emma rolls her eyes. "Oh they're real. But if you simply aren't interested..."  She gives the man a coy look.

"Now I didn't say that, did I?  I was just havin' a little game wiv ya, sweetheart.  That's all."

Emma fixes him with a steely glare, all simpering and coyness gone now. "How much then?"

The man seems a little taken aback, like he’s re-appraising Emma.  “Five.”

“That’s nowhere near what they’re worth,” Emma scoffs.  “I could get at least fifteen for them.”

This time the man looks like she’s said the most ridiculous thing.  “Well, go on then.  I ain’t givin’ you more’n seven.”

“Fine.  I’ll just take them to that other woman who was interested then…”  Emma pauses, judging the man’s reaction.

“You mean Bet?  Set up down by the mill?”  He points in the direction of the river and Emma, without looking, nods.

“Yes.  That’s her.”

Killian knows Emma’s lying, but she’s quite convincing, and she seems to have convinced the man behind the stall, who huffs and puts his hands on his hips.

“Ten then,” he says.

“No, sorry.  Thanks for your time.”  She turns and starts to walk away and Killian is about to reluctantly follow her, the idea of cherry tarts fading fast before him when the stallholder calls out “Alrigh’ then, sweetheart.  Fifteen.  ‘Cos it’s for your weddin’.  But you do drive a bloody ‘ard bargain.  Good luck to you, mate.”  The last part is directed to Killian, with a wink.

Emma smiles at his words, and hands over the pearls in exchange for fifteen gold coins which she waves happily in Killian’s face as they walk away.  “I thought we’d get no more than twelve at most,” she says.  “I’m just glad I spent all that time practicing haggling when I was in the Maritime Kingdom.  I’m telling you now, I didn’t pay full price for that ring I bartered with Mistress Dab.”

“No.  Quite.  You are…getting very good at lying,” Killian comments.

“It’s not _lying_.  It’s bluffing.  Or something, anyway.  But everyone seems to like the story about getting married.  I think that’s a good one.” 

“Are you sure?”  Killian’s not certain he can understand her reasoning at all.  Emma had been so unhappy the night before at the thought of one day having to pick a husband but now she’s blithely dragging him around as her pretend fiancé.  It’s mind-boggling how quickly she changes her mind and he can’t really see what the appeal of all the faux-congratulations are.

“Well, yes,” she says, as they reach the stall with the tarts again.  “Do you think that if we say we want to serve cherry tarts at the wedding that they might offer us a taste of some first?  Just to see if we like them?”

She looks at him as though he has all the answers about what is and isn’t acceptable when you’re getting married, or pretending to at least, and Killian hasn’t a clue at all.  All he knows is that the whole thing is making him nearly as uncomfortable as having Emma sit on his lap did.

Emma carries on regardless, and in short succession they have eaten the cherry tarts, some hot ham rolls, a slice of lemon pie each and shared a baked potato.  All of this is washed down with some ginger beer.  Everything tastes delicious, although Killian can’t tell if that’s just because he’s hungry or if the food is really that good.

Or perhaps he just feels more relaxed now that he’s not pretending to be Emma’s fiancé or fella or brother or anything else.  It’s easier just to be…well, he supposes he could be termed her friend.  Or, at least, he hopes that’s how she sees him, and not just as occasional furniture rendered more useful when there is a story to be spun about a wedding.

And with the spirit of friendship in mind, he decides to ask Emma something that’s been on his mind since the morning.  “So, why are we Edward and Bella?”

“Oh,” Emma says, putting down her ginger beer bottle and sounding surprised.  “I thought you knew.  It’s the names of Teddy’s parents.  You know the bears.”  She looks thoughtful.  “I suppose you never got properly introduced because you were…”

He’s glad that she refrains from adding hiding outside the cottage, but it hangs in the air.  There’s silence for a while as he looks through the crowds of people milling around to where he thinks he saw some soldiers patrolling. 

Emma’s spied something else.  She grabs his arm all of a sudden, and points.  “Look!  There.  We should go there.”

All Killian can see is a not very promising looking shack, but he follows Emma’s lead until he can see the sign that’s hanging outside.  Bathhouse.

“Do you think we should?” Emma asks, looking at the coins they have left and then at Killian and mostly he thinks they should save what money they do have, but he’s finding it difficult to actually say the words that might leave Emma disappointed.

In the end she takes his silence for acquiescence and they go inside where, thankfully, the person collecting their fee doesn’t care at all whether they’re married or related and they can collect some towels and go their separate ways in peace.

The effect of hot water is not to be dismissed, Killian feels.  And, certainly, after a night sleeping in a barn, burdened with clothes that belonged to someone else and the grime he’s picked up since, a hot bath is more than welcome.

But by the time they are both finished and leave the bathhouse the day is drawing to a close.  Most of the stallholders have packed up their wares, or are in the process of doing so, and the town is closing in on itself as people leave the streets and return home. 

“What should we do now?” Emma asks, looking around.  She looks a lot cleaner now, too, but there’s a fear in her eyes that hasn’t been there all day, Killian realises.  The effect of being around other people, of all these games of pretend she’s been playing is that she hasn’t had to think about their situation.  And Killian really doesn’t want to suggest a night in the open to her now, even if it was practical.  If those soldiers he saw early find them loitering around town after dark…well, then no amount of pretence is really going to help them.

“I suppose we find somewhere to sleep,” Killian says, hoisting the basket up once again, and starting for the centre of town.  The night air is cool, and Emma takes the baby blanket and wraps it around her shoulders as they walk past the lights of a handful of houses and the closed up shutters of the town’s few permanent shops.  The mill’s wheel still turns, but there’s no activity there apart from that.

Killian begins to wonder if finding a safe place to spend the night is easier said than done when, just before the road thins out to a track again, they come across the one sign of life in the town, an inn.  They stop for a moment as patrons spill out into the night, calling over their shoulders, and the open door gives them a brief glance of noise and bustle inside.

“Well, there’s that place, I suppose.”  Killian glances at Emma to see how she takes the notion.  It’s probably not what she imagined, no welcoming family hearth but rather a sprawling mess of drunkenness and other unpleasantness.

“Will there be beds?” she asks.

“Yes…although they won’t be what you’re used to.  I suppose it’ll be better than a barn, though.  No cats for one thing.”

She doesn’t laugh and he’s worried that she’ll call off the whole idea and they’ll have to come up with another plan, although he isn’t certain what that will be.  Walking far enough into the woods to be safe just seems fraught with dangers.

And so Killian continues trying to sell Emma on the idea.  They’re here now and it’s only one night.  He’s sure they can make the best of it.  “I’m sure the women’s quarters will be clean, and you might be lucky and find there’s a reasonably low occupancy.  You might even get a bed to yourself.”

Too late he realises that his words have had utterly the wrong effect and he wonders why he even bothered to open his mouth in the first place.  Emma turns to him, her face a picture of wide-eyed horror.  “Really?  I’d have to share a bed with a stranger?”

“Well, maybe not.  But it will only be women.  I’ll…I’ll be with the single men, I suppose.”  Or perhaps back in the barn he thinks, if that proves too expensive, but he won’t discuss that with Emma right then.  He wants to get her settled, get her safe, and then worry about himself.

Emma doesn’t like that plan at all.  “I don’t want to go in there alone.”

“You won’t be alone.  I’ll be there…just not…there.   It will be fine.”  Perhaps if he says it enough she’ll start to believe him.

“No, but we could just say…couldn’t we?” she pleads.

“Say what?”

“That we want a room together.  Then…then it’ll be better.”  Killian thinks that it might be better for Emma, but he’s not sure it will be for him.  Proximity to Emma is…a problem.  And not one he can easily solve by sleeping in the same room with her again.

“They’d only do that if we said we were actually married,” he says gently, thinking that will dissuade her from going down that road.

But she remains adamant.  “Then that’s what we’ll do.  I’m sure they’ll believe us, and what does it matter anyway?  It’s not like anyone will ever know.”

Emma seems to think that settles the matter, but it leaves Killian feeling uneasy.  Certainly they might have no problem persuading the publican that they are married but Killian’s not sure whether he’s ready to make the change from chair to husband.  It all seems a little bit too much to cope with in the space of just one day.

He looks again at Emma’s face, sees the hope in her eyes and resolves that he will, because the last thing he wants is for Emma to find out that he’s well…that he enjoys the pretence a little more than he should.  Because that’s all it is, after all.  And when they get back to The Enchanted Forest and her castle he’ll no doubt find he might as well be a chair for all she’ll remember him.

“So…you ready to go inside?” she asks.

“Yes.  Let’s just…let’s just go.”  He leads the way through the door of the inn and into the press of people inside.

**Thanks for reading!**


	9. Chapter 9

Killian seems reluctant to go along with her plan which makes Emma fear the worst.  It’s clear that he finds the whole idea of pretending to be married simply abhorrent and now she wishes that she’d never proposed such a thing in the first place.

It's not like Emma doesn't understand that she's hardly the wife Killian would pick, no doubt he'd opt for someone who understands the intricacies of wood stacking and has a mortal fear of cats.  But the way he recoils when she tries to hold his hand - because they should try to actually look married, shouldn't they? - still hurts her feelings. 

“You’re just going on ahead without me,” she complains, while Killian just frowns at the hand she’s grabbed.  “And I thought that perhaps we should try not to lose each other in this crowd.”

Emma wants to add that they’re supposed to actually want to hold hands, but honestly, Killian looked less upset when she tried to hand him a baby.  So she’s going to hold her tongue because if she has to hear him list all the reasons he doesn’t want to take her hand then she’s possibly going to cry.

It has been a very trying two days, and Emma will be very glad to be home.

“Right.  Yes,” Killian says, without really sounding like he agrees with her, and they continue on through the crowd of people gathered inside the inn.  Emma can’t make out what’s actually in the space, other than tables, and people.  So many of them.  It had been nice to be around people for a little while, the Schumachers had been pleasant enough company, but she doesn’t think that she really wants to have to squeeze through everyone in this room.

But there is no choice, she assumes, but to press forward.  At least, not if they want to sleep in a bed tonight and not in a pile of hay.  And Emma’s glad that she has Killian here because, as grumpy as he’s been about the hand-holding, he seems to have some idea about what they need to do.  Emma’s never had to arrange a room for the night before, in an inn or elsewhere.  She feels over-whelmed and under-prepared and is happy to just sit back and let Killian deal with it all.

But all the same, by the time she’s being dragged past the same people she’s fairly certain she was dragged past just a few moments earlier, she starts to wonder if he’s actually got any idea what’s happening.  And, quite frankly, she’s rather sick of the constant press of people and the resulting mixture of smells, mostly unpleasant, that are invading her nostrils.

She’s trying to think of a way to ask Killian if he knows what he’s doing in a manner which won’t come across as suggesting he doesn’t know what he’s doing, when she suddenly finds her hand being yanked extra hard as Killian surges forward.  Then, almost as suddenly, he just stops completely, and Emma crashes into his arm before she realises what’s happening.

“Ow!” she exclaims, but Killian pays her no heed, as he’s now entirely focused on a man standing behind a tall desk who is completely ignoring them.

“You could have warned me,” she hisses, but he waves his hand at her in a way that is downright dismissive.

“And don’t just ignore me!” she adds, at a louder volume this time. 

Killian does stop ignoring her, but only to turn and frown at her while making a shushing noise.

 

If she hadn’t just established how incredibly bony his shoulder was, she’d be tempted to hit him.

But Killian’s attention is elsewhere now.  He’s turned back to watch the man behind the desk, who finally lifts his head and looks from Killian to Emma and back again.  He’s small, with grey hair and pinched features that put Emma in mind of something rodent-like.  She knows it isn’t charitable to judge someone on their appearance only, but she can’t help it.  There’s something about him that just makes her uncomfortable and she wishes that Killian hadn’t dropped her hand quite so quickly when she bumped into him.

“So what can I do for love’s young dream, then?” the man asks, without a smile and Emma can’t tell if he thinks he’s making a joke, or not.

Killian isn’t laughing, though, so she decides to take her cues from him and remains silent while he speaks.  “We would, ah, like a room for the night.  If one is available,” Killian says, hesitantly.

The man sucks a breath in between his yellowed teeth.  “Ooh, that’s a lot you’re asking for.  When I’m full to the brim with this lot.”  He inclines his head towards the rest of the room.  “Might be room in the women’s quarters, but men’s is full up.”

This time Emma doesn’t wait for Killian to speak because she knows the answer to the question the man in charge hasn’t asked, and her words tumble out almost too eagerly.  “But we’re married, so we can have a room together.”

She watches the man and hopes that he doesn’t say that all their rooms are currently occupied, but all he does is wipe his nose with the back of his hand.

Emma’s about to ask if he has an answer for them, but someone jostles her from behind and she turns around to look over her shoulder.  It could have been anyone.  When she turns back, the man is looking at Killian.

“She want a soft or a hard mattress?” he says, jerking his head in Emma’s direction.

Killian looks flummoxed, and Emma’s about to say that she doesn’t care, but the man gives Killian a sly smile and says “What?  You don’t know your own wife’s preferences?  Terrible, that is. Just terrible.”

Emma watches Killian’s jaw set and she’s afraid that he’s about to protest, and perhaps ruin their chances of getting to sleep in a bed, and so she blurts out “We’re only just married, so it’s fine that he doesn’t know.”

The man flicks his eyes in her direction, briefly, and then turns his attention back to Killian, who seems a little stunned by Emma’s words.  “Is that right?” the man asks, slowly.

“Uh…yes.”

Emma has the flash of an idea, something that she thinks might make the story more plausible.  Which will be a good thing, because this man just seems dubious about everything they say.  “We went to Helensville,” she says.  “And we only got married today.  So we’re just making our way home again.  My parents, they will want me…back on the farm.”

The man utterly ignores her.  “Wife with a _farm_ ,” he says to Killian.  “Good choice there, you’ll be set for life.  Soon as you can sort out the bed situation that is.”  And then he winks.

Emma waits for Killian to deny everything, but instead he looks thoughtful, and then he says “She comes with her own flock of sheep.”

They both laugh.

Emma fumes silently.  She’s been married – well, pretend-married – for about ten minutes and she hates it utterly.  In fact she’d like to get it annulled on the spot if it weren’t for the fact that they’d be sent away and have to sleep somewhere where there definitely won’t be mattresses, soft or otherwise.

Still, when she is jostled again by someone walking past and loses her footing Emma takes the moment as an opportunity to bring her foot down on Killian’s, quite hard.  She feels him wince, but to his credit, he doesn’t yelp.

More’s the pity.

“So,” the man says.  “Bed-testing’s tonight.  Best take one of the good rooms, which, I’m sorry to say, is about all we’ve got left, anyhows.  But they’re at the top, so you’ll get a little more privacy.  Might be a good idea.  She looks a bit feisty.  I’m a little worried about the bed.”

Emma wants to tell this person that she has no intention of doing anything to his bed because she's only annoyed with Killian, but she's worried that the man controlling who gets a bed might think she's also annoyed with him.  And she is, but it wouldn't do to let him know.

Killian just looks a little flushed and isn’t saying anything, which is not at all helpful because she doesn’t know what to say to this man who wants to keep discussing beds, but doesn’t want to give them one.  Emma tries to give Killian an encouraging look, but he ducks his head and avoids her gaze.

Emma supposes that’s what she gets for stamping on his foot.

Eventually Killian manages to recover enough to carry on the conversation.  "Just a room, really, is all we need."

"With a bed," Emma adds, because she's a little worried that Killian will sign them up for sleeping in a broom cupboard or something equally unpleasant.

"Of course," the man says, still sounding as though the whole thing is some private joke and he's the only one who can understand it.

“How much?” Killian asks, taking Emma a little by surprise because she’d forgotten that there was more to this transaction than just persuading the man that they should be allowed anywhere near one of his beds.  This is all so new to her, this asking for a place to sleep and paying for the privilege.  Normally people are falling over themselves to offer up accommodation whenever she travels with her parents.

Emma tells herself this will all one day be a wonderful story she can tell her brothers and sisters about what life is like if you’re not royalty, and she just hopes that they actually get a bed so that it’s a story with a happy ending, and not a story with a moral about…well, she’s not certain.  Perhaps not doing what Eva wants, is the main one. 

The man gives them a hard stare, arms folded and eyes narrowed.  “Tell you what,” he says.  “Seeing as it’s your wedding night, I’ll let you have the best room here for just a couple’a silver.  What d’you reckon?  Seems like she’s worth the investment.”  He nods at Emma who isn’t sure at all how to take that remark.

It’s not really her fault that she has sheep and everyone else seems to be a little jealous.  Really, if they’d seen her sheep, who, although their wool is a marvel, tend towards the dumb and uncooperative end of the scale, they probably wouldn’t be.

Killian meanwhile is looking thoughtful, and has turned to Emma as though to ask if the price is acceptable.  Emma wonders if it’s the done thing to bargain over beds like it is over trinkets, but has no way to ask Killian without the man over-hearing, so, instead, she nods.

“Yes,” Killian says.  “We’ll take the room.”

“Excellent.  Now, payment up front and I just need a name for the register.”

Emma takes the money they have left over from the sale of the pearls out of the pocket of her hand-me-down skirt and holds it out to Killian, who takes a couple of the bigger coins from her.  She puts the rest back and hopes they aren’t being swindled.

“Alright, then.  See the missus has got you where she wants you.  Name?”

“Uh…Edward,” Killian says, slowly, making it painfully obvious that he had to dredge the name up from his memory. 

The man writes something in the book on the desk in front of him, but stops and looks up.  “And last name?”

This time Killian’s hesitation is blatantly obvious and the silence seems to drag on and Emma wonders what odd comment the man will come up with next, and so she decides to take matters into her own hands.

“Swan,” she says, wondering where on earth the idea came from.  The bear family didn’t have last names, or, at least Emma doesn’t think they did.  Maybe it was Bear.  But that wouldn’t have worked and Swan seems to have just appeared in her mind.

“Like the name of this place?” the man asks her, sharply, and she suddenly realises why the word was just _there_.  The sign outside had quite clearly given the name as The White Swan.

There’s nothing for it, but to brazen it out.  “Two n’s at the end, though,” she adds and crosses her fingers.

“Alright then,” the man says, scribbling something in the book again. 

Just then, an exceedingly plump woman, with grey wisps of hair escaping the cap on her head, approaches the man at the desk.  

"Where you putting these two, Jack?" she asks, her voice loud, even with all the noise in the room.

"These two is just married, today apparently. So I'm putting them at the top on the left, if you must know, woman."

His words are less than kind but his tone has more exasperation than malice in it, plus a hint of that joke that he doesn't seem to want to share.

What does it matter when they got married, anyway?  Or pretend-married, Emma corrects, even though it’s only her own thoughts. 

“Did you offer them anything to eat?” the woman asks.  “Can’t forget to feed the guests, you know.”

The man…Jack, Emma supposes his name is, huffs in response.  “Not everyone’s as fond of their grub as you are.”

“Don’t mean you have to be rude,” the woman snaps back. 

Emma’s worried that the argument may escalate to the point where everyone forgets about the fact she’s getting a bed.  She decides that it would be better to just jump into the conversation rather than be forgotten completely.  “It’s fine, because I’m not…we’re not hungry.  We just want to get to bed.”

There’s silence for a moment, and Emma wonders if she’s been unacceptably rude.  Killian has turned to look at her and he looks more than a little uncomfortable which makes her feel worse because not only has she unwittingly insulted the people who own this place, she’s made Killian ashamed of being pretend-married to the rudest girl in the realm.

It’s probably just lucky her mother isn’t here to see this.

And then, seemingly all of a sudden, the man called Jack and the woman standing next to him burst out laughing.  Jack elbows the woman and says “That told you.  She’s dead keen to get upstairs.”

The woman continues laughing while Jack reaches over and hits Killian, hard, on the upper arm.  Emma may have wanted to thump him earlier, but she’s not sure about this turn of events or why Killian’s chuckling, albeit weakly, in response.

The whole thing seems to be taking an odd turn.  And a long time.  And Emma wasn’t lying when she said she wanted to get to bed.

In the end the laughter dies down.  The woman wipes her eyes with a finger and says “Come on then, you two.  Let’s get you up to that bed.”

Emma’s relieved enough by the woman’s words to manage a smile herself, now.  She knows that she’s being a little single minded but it feels like forever since she slept in a real bed and the last two days have been exhausting in the extreme.

“Off you go with Mistress Spratt, then,” Jack, or perhaps Mr Spratt, tells them.  “And mind you behave yourselves.”  Jack giggles to himself but Emma ignores him and starts to follow Mistress Spratt, grabbing Killian’s hand and pulling him along with her.  He still seems a bit stunned and she’s not prepared to lose their chance at getting a room because they were too slow.

The push through the crowd of people, most of them stepping aside to make way for Mistress Spratt and, if they don’t, the sheer width of her body forces a path through which Emma follows as closely as possible.

Turning a corner, they follow the woman up a set of stairs so narrow that Emma’s afraid Mistress Spratt will end up stuck at any moment.  But she appears used to navigating the confined space and barely brushes the walls as the stairs twist and turn.

Stepping onto a landing Mistress Spratt leads them to a small door and ushers them inside, where she proceeds to quickly light the fire that’s already been laid in the room.  “There’s your bed,” she says, pointing to what is, indeed, a bed, albeit an exceedingly small one. 

Emma realises, belatedly, that Killian may have had a point about the furniture in the bears’ cottage.

Meanwhile Mistress Spratt seems to think the whole thing is a joke.  “Now you be kind to it,” she says, and then, wagging a finger at Killian she adds “And to each other.  Don’t want no damage in the morning.  Good night!” 

With an exaggerated wink followed by a shrieking laugh, she exits the room.  Emma stands there awkwardly, not sure what to do next and painfully aware that Killian is looking annoyed and somewhat embarrassed, red colouring his cheeks and his neck.

“I don’t know why everyone keeps going on about the bed!” Emma exclaims, after the silence threatens to stretch on.  She hopes that Killian will join her in being flabbergasted at the behaviour of their hosts and forget whatever she did that has upset him.

Only instead of commiserating with her, Killian is giving her an incredulous look, as though she’s completely missed what happened.

“What?” Emma demands, feeling on the back foot.

“You kept telling them you wanted to get to bed,” Killian says, slowly, like she’s an idiot.  Which she definitely _isn’t_.

“Exactly.  I am tired, and you would think that they would be used to weary travellers stopping here and I simply don’t understand why it was such a _thing_.”

Killian’s eyes go very wide in response.  “You kept pointing out that it was our wedding night.”

“I…oh, well.  Oh.”  Suddenly things make a little more sense to Emma and she feels embarrassed by her complete and utter obliviousness.  She can hear her mother’s voice in her head telling her to pay more attention to what other people are saying and not just her own wants and Emma realises that she would have been right.  The desire to sleep in a real bed had just blocked her mind to any other possibilities.

Emma’s face feels as hot as Killian’s now looks.  The right thing to do would be to admit that she was foolish and move on.  But Emma’s not prepared for that at all.  Instead, she decides that the best way to conquer her embarrassment is to simply pretend nonchalance about the whole situation.

“Anyway, it’s ridiculous.  I’d hardly be looking forward to _that_.  Some people are just silly.”

Emma’s words don’t seem to make the situation any better.  In fact, Killian looks even more miserable now, and refused to make eye contact with her.  And she didn’t mean to insult him…or, at least, she thinks she didn’t, but wedding nights…they’re not supposed to be anything you look forward to, are they?

The truth is that she doesn’t really know.  The information she has to go on, gleaned mainly from a very old book given to her by her mother, paints a less than appetising picture of the duties of the high-born wife.  There are other glimpses though, tantalisingly fleeting ones, which she’s gathered from the few frivolous novels she’s read, and the over-heard whispers of the serving-girls in the castle.  They suggest that there are….things that you could look forward to.  If only you knew where to look.

But Emma doesn’t want to try to explain all of this to Killian.  Mainly for fear that he will laugh at her naivety.  Or, worse, consider her unspeakably brazen for even wishing to know about such things before she is married or betrothed.

There are simply too many ways in which she could end up even more humiliated than she already is, so Emma decides to simply drop the subject.

“I suppose we should decide who gets to sleep in the bed,” she says, feeling that this might be an olive branch.  Not that she seriously expects to have to give up the bed, but she wants Killian to think that she might do it, and therefore stop looking like he blames her for every ill that’s befallen them to date.

But he doesn’t seem to have the energy to play her game of ‘who can make the most polite demurrals before finally relenting’.  “I’ll just sleep there,” he says, pointing to the rug on the floor, wearily.  He catches Emma’s eye and looks like he might say something else, but thinks better of it.

“Are you certain?” she asks, slowly and with the full realisation that, should she travel too far down this path, she may accidentally give up her rights to the bed.

“I’ve already been warned not to injure you,” Killian all but splutters.  “I hardly think they’ll be impressed if you are sporting a bruised back in the morning.”

“Oh,” Emma says.  She hadn’t realised quite how miserable Killian felt about the whole wedding night thing.  “Well, at least the fire is nice.”

Killian doesn’t say anything, just shrugs and puts the basket containing their meagre belongings down beside the bed.

“I might just get ready for bed then,” Emma announces, to her sullen audience of one.  She steps towards the little door in the corner of the room marked with a sign that says _Privy_.

“Do you need, uh…?” Killian asks suddenly, and when she turns around he’s pointing to the basket.

“Oh.  No.  That’s…that’s finished.”  She steps inside the small room and shuts the door behind her.

It was an odd feeling, that thrill she got from Killian’s rather awkward question.  The knowledge that he may have been embarrassed by her incompetence in dealing with the day to day rigours of life, but he still cared enough to remind her to take a rag into the privy with her.

Well, cared might be stretching things a little too far.  But he is aware of her all the same and it’s _nice_ that he is and it makes Emma wonder whether it might be nice to actually be married to someone like that.

And then she wonders what on earth she’s even doing thinking such a thing and a panicked thudding starts up in her chest.

Marriage is another subject that is nothing but fraught for Emma.  Certainly, she has the example of her own parent’s marriage, but there are times when Snow and Charming seem to exist in their own special world, one where they argue fondly with each other and can have whole conversations in the space of three words, and where they often embarrass their children by kissing each other enthusiastically in front of them.

But her parents are a special case; true love.  Emma won’t get that, and so she’d thought she wanted a husband who was dashing and brave and who didn’t put frogs in her bed.  Surely that wasn’t too much to ask?

Now she is realising, belatedly again and she curses herself for always being so late, that maybe she’s missed an important part of her parent’s marriage.  It’s the care they take in one another.  It was something she’d believed unobtainable, something that only came with True Love.  But maybe she’d been wrong.

Maybe that was what she really wanted after all.  Someone who was nice enough to give her the bigger of the cherry tarts because they’d traded her pearls for the coin to buy them.  Maybe that - well, that and handsome, was enough.

It takes Emma a moment, during which time she finishes using the privy, to realise that she’s just labelled Killian as handsome.  The thought makes her flush again, even though no one can see her and no one even knows her thoughts and there’s a moment where she wonders if she might be better spending the night where she is rather than face Killian again knowing that her mind is running away with her.

 _It’s just the tiredness_ , she tells herself.  And perhaps it is.  She has enough younger siblings to have had first-hand knowledge of exactly how irrational one person can be when they are over-tired. 

So that’s probably all that’s happened to Emma’s brain now.  It’s all just a manifestation of her tiredness.

She takes a deep breath and pushes open the door to the little bedroom.  Killian has laid out Teddy’s baby blanket on the rug on the floor and looks at her warily.  Or wearily.  She can see the shadows around his eyes in this light.

So they are both tired.  And they’ll both be in a better mood come morning, when all this nonsense about wedding nights can be forgotten. 

“Your turn!” she says, brightly, and Killian walks past her, leaving Emma to inspect the bed a little more closely.  She turns back the sheets which appear clean enough and then something, something awful, occurs to her.

As soon as Killian steps back into the room she blurts out the question she’s been stewing about for the past few minutes.  “Will they want to check the sheets in the morning?”

“Check them for what?” Killian asks, looking perplexed, and Emma’s taken aback because she thought he’d know and she wouldn’t have to explain and suddenly this line of conversation doesn’t seem like a good idea at all.

It’s all far too hard when she’s this tired.  “You know, because I said it was our wedding night…” Emma says, waiting for realisation to dawn in Killian’s face.

It doesn’t.  Instead he looks downright perplexed.  “But what will they be checking?”

Emma looks very purposefully at the fire.  “Me.  To see if I was…if I hadn’t been touched.”

There’s silence, apart from the crackling of the logs in the hearth and Emma is simply too embarrassed to look at Killian now.  Maybe he thinks that she isn’t pure?  Or, and Emma can’t decide if this is worse, perhaps he thinks she’s just a naïve little fool because who’d want her anyway?  No one but a stupid boy-prince with a liking for frogs, anyway.

“They do that?” Killian asks, and for a moment Emma wonders if his question is genuine, but she glances at his face and the way his brows are knitted together suggests that it is.

“Well.  Yes.  I don’t know if they do it for everyone.  Do you?”

Killian shakes his head for no.  It’s clear that, unlike Emma, this is not part of the future he’s had to contemplate.  It must be nice to be a man, Emma thinks, and be free from so much judgement.  Or perhaps it’s that he won’t get married because he’s in the navy.  Either way he’s probably never had to think about the humiliation inherent in the whole wedding night scenario.

“But…,” Killian says, hesitantly.  “We wouldn’t let them.  I mean, if we were really married…then it would be up to us, wouldn’t it?  And if you don’t…want that.  Then I don’t want that.”

“You think it’s as simple as that?” Emma asks, genuinely curious. 

“I think it should be,” Killian says softly, and they stand awkwardly in front of the fireplace.

Everything Emma’s read suggests it isn’t as straightforward as Killian makes it seem, but it is a lovely thought all the same.  She likes the idea of it being the two of them against…well, she isn’t certain.  Old bridal traditions, she supposes.  It’s nice, thinking you have someone who would take your side no matter what.

But it’s all just pretend, and he’s probably ready to declare they’re not really married the next time she does something embarrassing.

“I suppose we should get to bed,” Emma says, after the silence just seems to be stretching on and on.

“That seems like a good idea,” Killian agrees.

Emma turns her back to him to face the bed and quickly unties the corset that came from Mistress Dabb’s daughter.  She hesitates for a moment, and then steps out of the skirt and throws off the shirt as well, leaving her in just her shift, scrambling under the covers hurriedly before she gets embarrassed.

When she’s settled herself in the cold and slightly damp, sheets she dares to look across at Killian who is now lying on the floor, under the blanket, with his back to her.  Emma wonders how many layers of clothing he’s removed, if any at all, even though she knows it’s a little rude to be curious about such things.

“Goodnight, Killian,” Emma says.

“Goodnight,” she hears him mumble in response, before she closes her eyes.

Sleep comes quickly and Emma doesn’t remember anything else, until she comes awake again, suddenly, some time later.  She has no idea how long she’s been asleep for; the fire has died away almost to embers, but it’s still the only light in the room.

There’s a deep sigh from somewhere on the floor, and she hears the sound of Killian rolling over and shuffling around.  She wonders if this is what woke her, and if it was on purpose.

“Are you alright?” she whispers.

Killian sighs again.  “Yes.”

“You don’t sound alright.”

“It’s just…hard to get comfortable.”  He shifts again and she hears a banging noise.  “Ow!”

“Are you hurt?” Emma asks.

“I’ll live.  Unless whatever keeps scrabbling around in the corner eats me, of course.”  He sounds morose now and Emma refrains from pointing out that whatever is in the corner might not have been a problem had they rescued some of the kittens from Mistress Dabb’s farm.

"I don't think you really need to worry about that," is what she does say and all she gets in response is another loud sigh and more shuffling.

It's clear that Killian is miserable where he is and Emma is worried that if something doesn’t change, neither of them will get any sleep.  At least, she tells herself that’s the reason she asks Killian what she does, and not because she feels guilty at having the better sleeping place. "Uh, do you want to share with me?"

“Share?”

“The bed.”  Emma, feeling more awake now, lifts her head up and props it on one hand, patting the bed with the other at the same time.  “You might be able to sleep then.”

She can’t really see what Killian is doing, and she definitely can’t make out the expression on his face, but she certainly doesn’t get the words of gratitude she expected from him. “Oh.  No.  That wouldn’t be right.”

“We shared a blanket last night,” Emma points out.

“Which you mostly hogged,” Killian grumbles.

“Well you’re keeping me awake with all the rustling and groaning…”

“I’m not groaning.”

“Mumbling then.  And banging things.  And if I don’t get back to sleep soon I’m going to be really grumpy in the morning.”

There’s silence for a moment, and then some movement.  “Well, if it will stop you being grumpy,” Killian huffs.

Emma hears his footsteps and then feels the bed dip next to her, which makes her shuffle over towards the wall quickly.  She hadn’t realised that she’d be boxed in like this but she supposes it’s preferable to Kilian climbing over her.

He settles on top of the bedspread and pulls Teddy’s blanket over him and then Emma waits, feeling a little tense, but hoping that if Killian can just fall asleep now then she will be able to as well.  And she really wants to go to back to sleep.

But Killian is unable to settle.  He tosses and turns a few times, meaning Emma is left to ride the resulting wave across the mattress that sends her far too close to the wall for comfort.  She holds very still and hopes it will be over soon, but it isn’t and now the sighing is back again and she wonders how many real marriages end when the bride murders her new husband on their wedding night.

“You still can’t sleep,” she says, and it was meant to be an observation, but it sounds far more like an accusation.

“No,” Killian replies, sounding sad.  Emma would like it if he sounded a little more contrite about the whole thing, but she realises she can’t have everything.

“Just try to sleep,” Emma hisses.  “ _Please_.”

“It’s just…” Killian begins, and then stops, as though he thought better of it.

“What?”

“It doesn’t…move.”

“What doesn’t?”  Emma’s quite frankly confused now.

“The…room.  It’s not like a ship.” 

“Ohhh.”  That makes some sense Emma thinks, but there’s still not much she can do about it.  “But you can still sleep, can’t you?”

“I want to,” Killian says.  “But it’s not working.”

It’s all a little frustrating as far as Emma is concerned.  She can’t change the inn into a boat and she really just needs Killian to sleep or else she won’t just be grumpy in the morning, she’ll be murderous because they finally have a bed and it’s just not fair that he’s spoiling it.

And so she does the only thing she can think of, she rolls from side to side, making the bed shake.

“What are you doing?” Killian asks, sounding confused and Emma thinks it’s so funny that he’s asking that question when he’s barely been able to keep still since he joined her in the bed.

“You wanted it to move,” Emma says, as she rolls even harder now, at one point crashing into Killian’s shoulder.  She’s giggling too, in a slightly hysterical fashion, because it’s the most ridiculous thing.  Completely ridiculous, because who ever heard of someone who can’t sleep like a normal person in a stationary bed?

But she can’t stop herself now and the tiredness spurs her on, and she’s rolling and giggling while Killian splutters next to her.

Emma’s silliness proves catching because Killian goes from complaining that she’s being ridiculous to joining her, and now it’s the two of them twisting about on the bed.  She starts pushing herself upwards, and down again, trying to see if she can bounce Killian right off the thing and she’s laughing in a breathless, wheezing, way while the bedsprings creak and groan and the headboard thuds against the wall and Killian blurts out a protesting “Emma!” as her hand flies out and hits his chest, to which she only responds with more giggling.

And then she hears something she can’t ignore.  She hears loud, male voices outside the room.  Laughter intersperses whatever it is they’re discussing.

Emma feels her own good humour dissipate.  “Shhh,” she says to Killian, who hasn’t quite caught on to what’s happening yet.

He stops moving and Emma can now hear what’s going on outside a lot better.  It sounds like there are two, maybe three, men laughing and then Mistress Spratt says “Leave them poor newlyweds alone!”

Someone bangs on their door, which makes Emma jump and shrink back towards the wall and one of the men shouts “You go on there!”, and another says “Give it to her good!”, before they all laugh again and, after some more shushing by Mistress Spratt, their footsteps sound heavily down the hall and disappear around a corner.

The room seems very quiet all of a sudden and Killian rolls over so his back is to Emma.  The air of embarrassment in the room is such a contrast to the previous, happy mood they shared and Emma is annoyed.  “They were very rude,” Emma says.

“It was bad form,” Killian agrees quietly.

“They must have been drunk,” Emma says.  “Because why they would think that…I mean, all that bed bouncing was obviously something else altogether.  It couldn’t be…what they thought it was.”

She’s reluctant to dwell too much on the whole wedding night subject again, having upset Killian with her earlier words, but she thinks that those men were being ridiculous and clearly don’t have a clue what they are talking about. 

“No.  I’m fairly certain that’s why they were shouting at us,” Killian says, curtly, making it patently clear he blames Emma for this as well.

But she doesn’t have time to worry about being in his bad books because she’s too busy turning over what he’s said in her mind and it makes her curious enough to ask the next question that comes to her.

“So, have you?  You know…been with…someone?” she asks, her voice coming out a little squeaky.  It’s a risk asking such a question, but it’s a risk Emma’s willing to take.

Silence stretches out and she thinks Killian won’t answer her, but in the end she hears a quiet “Yes.”

That opens up a whole new range of possibilities for Emma.  She’s never been around anyone before who might answer the questions she has regarding the whole mysterious world of what happens between men and women.

The book her mother gave her has provided some details, ones which tend to the clinical and with the emphasis on duty and forbearance, but there are things that she knows her own body capable of, pleasure she’s discovered alone in her bed, and Emma simply can’t reconcile the two.

If she’s ever going to find out, this might be her only chance.  And so she blurts out the question that’s uppermost in her mind.

“Did she like it?  When you did it to her?”

“You make it sound like…I didn’t force her, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Emma hadn’t considered that possibility at all, but supposes this is good to know.  “No…I mean…I just wondered…did she?”

She holds her breath, waiting to see if Killian will answer.  She wishes that she’d used a better turn of phrase, made it harder for Killian to refuse to answer without appearing rude.  Her mother is good at that kind of thing, but it’s not a skill that Emma has inherited, or managed to learn by careful observation.  Instead she relies on blundering through and hoping for the best.

“I don’t know,” Killian says, hesitantly.

“Well…didn’t you ask?  I mean, it seems like it might have been bad form not to.”  Emma’s wondering if she isn’t the only one capable of making terrible mistakes of etiquette.

“It’s complicated,” Killian says in a voice which suggests he wants that to be the final word on the matter, but Emma’s intrigued now, and all thoughts of sleep have flown out the window.

“I know.  I mean…I can imagine,” she says, in what she hopes is a reassuring voice.  “And I don’t know much at all, just what was in the book my mother gave me.”

“Book?”  Killian sounds a little more interested now that the conversation has drifted away from who he’s bedded.

“Yes.  It’s a…well a marriage manual, I suppose.  For girls.  It explains…things.  Things like that, about wedding nights and the like.  That’s how I knew about the sheets.”

Killian rolls over so he’s facing her, and she can just make out his features in the dark, the pale skin of his face standing out against the gloom.  “They have books like that?  For girls?”

“Of course they do.”

“Liam has a book, but I’ve only seen it once.”

“A marriage manual?”  Emma’s pleased that the conversation seems to be a little less one-sided now, and that she was right in persevering with it.  She might be able to learn all sorts of interesting things if she’s lucky.

It’s nice having someone she can talk with about this.

“It’s more…pictures.”

“Pictures.”  Emma considers that.  She can’t quite imagine what that would be like because why would you need pictures of… _oh_.  “Really?”

“Um…yes.  I think it came from Agrabah.”

“And it shows…what happens?” 

“Well…ways that you could…if you wanted…like different ways,” Killian says hesitantly.

“I think there’s only one way,” Emma says decisively, and then she thinks better of it.  “Isn’t there?”

“There are some…variations.”

“Oh.”

This is all incredibly interesting and Emma’s managed to learn more in the last few minutes spent lying in the dark with Killian than she has in all her years to date.  It’s somehow easier to talk, lying here in the dark.  It’s like they’re the only two people in the world and it doesn’t matter what they say to each other.

But then Killian wants to go and ruin it.  “I don’t know if I should really be discussing this with you,” he says. 

Emma sighs.  “But no one else will, that’s the problem.  My mother gave me the book, and she said I could ask her things, but I don’t think she really wanted me to.  And then she sent me off to stay with Princess Abigail…and Freddie, and that’s the last thing I want to do with him.”

Queen Snow had beamed when she’d handed the book to Emma, saying that she’d found it in her mother’s things and that Queen Eva had died before she’d ever had the chance to pass it on, and wasn’t it lovely that she could do this for Emma so that she didn’t have to rely on only the advice of Granny Lucas and some dwarves.  And Emma had nodded and agreed that it was lovely to have a mother to share these things with.

But then she’d actually read the book and been horrified by it all and if this is what her mother expected her to do then she really was going to be a failure as a daughter because Freddie the Frog Prince was absolutely, positively never going to see her without her clothes on.

“They won’t force you to marry him…will they?” Killian asks.

Emma shrugs, and then realises that in the dark Killian may not have caught the movement.  “I don’t think so…but they’d like it if I did and I don’t want to be a disappointment.  I’ve been that already and it’s just awful!”  Behind Killian’s head the fire suddenly flares, hot and bright, but his face is still in shadow and she can’t make out his expression.

The fire dies back down and Emma blinks a couple of times and hopes she doesn’t cry, not when Killian’s right there with his own face only inches from hers and he’ll just think she’s being silly about it all.  And what would she know anyway?  He’s the one who’s had someone who liked him enough that she didn’t think it was just a duty she had to perform.

“I’m sorry,” Killian says.  “For saying that you had sheep.  I just wanted…I just wanted that man to take me…us seriously.  And give us a bloody room.  I’m sure that you have other things that would make you a good wife…not just…the things you own.”

“That’s alright,” Emma concedes.  “I just really wanted to sleep in a bed, that’s why I kept mentioning it.  I didn’t realise how it sounded.”

“I don’t think they will check the sheets,” Killian says after a few moments.  “I think that perhaps that’s just if you’re marrying someone important.”

“I hope so,” Emma replies.  “And if they ask in the morning, then I’ll say that I liked it.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t.”

“No.  It’s alright.  I don’t mind.  I don’t want them to think that it was awful.”

“Um…thank you.  I think.”  Killian doesn’t sound certain about that at all.  He sighs a little and shifts around, his knee bumping against hers but in a way that Emma doesn’t mind.

There’s silence for a moment, even Killian seems relaxed now, but Emma’s mind is still whirring.  Eventually she musters the courage to ask something else.  “Did she want to marry you?”

“I didn’t ask,” Killian mutters.

“I feel…maybe you should try asking a few more questions,” Emma says, fully expecting to be chided for asking too many.

Instead though Killian simply says “I couldn’t leave my ship.”

“But you did.  For me.”

“It’s not forever though.  It’s different.”

“I suppose it is.” 

Killian’s right though.  This is all just an interlude in their lives and as soon as they get back home she’ll go back to her old life, to counting down the days until she has to face up to the prospect of getting married and doing her duty, and Killian will go back to the sea.

But she’ll always remember the strange night they spent together pretending to be married and this odd, intimate, conversation in the middle of the night.

“Your hair smells like flowers,” Killian mumbles, his voice thick and slurred now.

“Mmm-hmm,” Emma agrees.  She was glad to have the opportunity to wash it at the bathhouse earlier and she’s not even that annoyed that Killian seems to be lying across some of it.

Instead she reaches over and runs her fingers through his hair, lightly scratching her nails across his scalp.  “Shhh.  Go to sleep,” she whispers, and she keeps stroking as she listens to the way his breathing changes, getting deeper and more even.

Emma doesn’t really feel like sleeping now.  She keeps her fingers moving, the soothing motion something she’s seen her mother do countless times.  Emma doesn’t feel maternal, though.  She can’t stop thinking about the girl Killian has known and what it would be like to be her, to go to bed with a man…with Killian…and finally find out what all the fuss is about.

Their bodies, although separated by the covers, are very close together and Emma feels hot all of a sudden, and a little jittery.  Her breathing sounds loud and there’s an aching between her legs that’s started up all of a sudden and is making her feel restless.

She tells herself that she’s being ridiculous, that’s she’s simply tired and getting carried away and the fact that she wonders what it might be like if she pressed herself up against Killian is simply the result of all this pretending to be married and talking about bedding people.

It’s not like she can do anything about it.  Ever.  Or that Killian would want to.  He’d probably be as horrified as he was when she tried to hold his hand earlier.

He has a ship and a girl who’s hand he probably likes holding.  He doesn’t need her.

So Emma drops her hand away from his face, a little reluctantly, and tucks it under her chin.  She lies there and listens to Killian breathing and waits for sleep to come again.

**Thanks for reading!**


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